


Ten Days With Tommo

by indiaalphawhiskey



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Football Player Louis, Journalist Harry, M/M, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiaalphawhiskey/pseuds/indiaalphawhiskey
Summary: Aspiring writer and all-around office gopher Harry Styles is desperately trying to establish himself as a hard-hitting journalist at the famous men’s magazine M™. When his editor-in-chief asks for a last minute volunteer, Harry jumps at the chance to write his first real assignment.Suddenly, Harry is tasked with writing a 10-day, exclusive, personal feature on roguishly handsome rising star, Football darling, and pain-in-the-arse diva Louis Tomlinson’s coming out. Harry just wants to write his story. Louis isn’t going to make it easy. Oh bloody buggering fuck.– loosely inspired by How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days





	1. Day 0

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> As I'm posting this, I'm already very nervous. This is my very first One Direction fanfic, so please feel free to leave any comments, suggestions, constructive criticism, or thoughts. I'd truly love to hear what you think -- good, bad, ugly.
> 
> That said, I'd like to thank my amazing beta @tempolarriefix -- thank you for being so patient with me, and of course for taking the time to comb through everything, answer all my newbie questions, and for all the love and encouragement. <3
> 
> Thank you as well to my amazing Britpicker @neveragainsimon -- your insights are so helpful, and the encouragement is heartwarming. Hugs all around!
> 
> Lastly, I have no affiliation with the boys. This is a work of fiction and is in no way reflective of their true characters or the characters of their family/friends.
> 
> Oh and come find me on tumblr! Would love to talk!  
> indiaalphawhiskey.tumblr.com
> 
> Happy reading!

**MONDAY**

London was cold, calm, and quiet, winds whipping leaves back and forth across its streets. A handful of delivery trucks were scattered across town, the soft hums and _puffpuffpuffs_ of their engines adding to the sleepy symphony. Shops were being unlocked, their soft, yellow lights mingling with the morning mist. The air always smelled fresher, the scent of coffee and pastries wafting through it, beckoning whoever was awake to come get some breakfast.

Harry Styles walked through the streets bundled in his scarf and coat. His hand shot to his mouth as he tried to stifle his yawn. As he reached his office building, he stepped inside and greeted John, the security guard, with a small wave, flashing his office badge as he passed through the entrance into the waiting lift. John had learned to boot one up earlier than the rest when Harry had started to come in at six in the morning everyday.

He hit 7th on the lift panel as he unwound his scarf and readjusted his work bag on his shoulder. The strap was beginning to fray, he noted, and mentally added a new one to his list of pending expenses. Better to buy one now than wait for this to fall apart, scattering pens and loose notebook leaves on the tube floor. (It had happened before.)

The lift doors pinged open, displaying the familiar _M™ Magazine_ logo, which was stark in the soft, blue light. The tagline proclaimed, _“For gentlemen in the know.”_

After hanging up his coat and scarf by the entrance, he walked straight to his desk, pulling out his desk chair and setting his bag on the floor. With a sigh of contentment, he savored the silence. A publishing office was rarely (read: _never_ ) this quiet. There were no ringing phones, no photocopiers bleeping and blooping, no frantic typing or soft curses being uttered at stubborn printers. He had two hours to get his bearings before complicated lattes were requested, and then promptly spilled, causing a mad dash for a tea towel.

Don’t get him wrong, Harry loved his job. Or, okay. He loved what his job was going to be—eventually—after he put in his time as a rookie writer and all-around office gopher. He knew he was extremely lucky to have landed a job at Gellhart & Gavin Publishing. (“It’s _Gah-vahn_ , darling,” Armand, the receptionist, had corrected him, with a pat to his well-coiffed hair.)

Regarded as a publishing powerhouse, G&G was notoriously hard to get into and rarely had any openings. It was rumored to receive at least a hundred applications a day, most of them never even making it to the Human Resources department. Harry had scarcely been able to believe it when he was told that he had scored an interview. It wasn’t for the publication he had initially wanted, but he knew putting in his time at _M™_ meant he was one step closer to a job at _The International™_ , and that was an opportunity he would not pass up.

The lights flickered on in the hallway, signaling that he was no longer alone. He sighed, bending down to switch on his office computer. He was going to get a head start on all the administrative work before the weekly 8.30 am staff meeting. A yellow Post-it with everyone’s regular coffee orders seemed to glow in the fluorescent office light, and he reached for the phone to call the café down the street.

 

\---

 

Harry set the last cinnamon soy latte on the coffee table before taking off his shoes and seating himself on the floor to Edith’s left.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said. During his first staff meeting, Harry was told they were all to be seated on the floor. “It makes everyone feel equal,” she explained. “Makes it easier to share ideas.”

Now, she sat straight-backed and poised on Harry’s right, her mostly white hair framing her face in a stylish, curly bob, and her bright red spectacles perched on her nose. “Settle down,” she said lightly.

Edith never raised her voice—she never needed to. Everyone was already terrified of her.

As the only female Editor-in-Chief at G&G, she had earned quite the reputation. Though regarded as a great mentor, she was not known for her patience. She ran a tight ship, and did not tolerate incompetence.

When asked in an interview whether she preferred to be feared or loved, she smiled calmly and replied, “ _I am both.”_ And that was that.

“Let’s do a quick run-down, shall we? World News?” She asked in a clipped tone.

“The piece on the American election is currently printing,” Cameron Davis declared confidently. “I’m flying out to do opinion interviews tomorrow for my next article.”

Edith nodded, peering down at her notes. One by one, she called out each section of the magazine to check their writing progress for the upcoming issue. Updates were usually rattled off succinctly, everyone itching to get out of the line of fire. Harry zoned out through Business, Finance, Technology, and Hobbies.

“Fashion?” she called lightly. It was the first time all morning she had directed a smile to anyone. Of course, it was for the insanely young, disastrously handsome fashion journalist, Zayn Malik.

Only two years Harry’s senior, Malik was a writing wunderkind and the clear favorite. He had impeccable taste in clothes, was great at his job, and was surprisingly fun for a person with such a broody and reserved demeanor.

“My highlights on the international fashion weeks were sent in yesterday, and my notes on the new Gucci collection are on your desk,” he drawled easily. “Spoiler alert: the collection is _awful,”_ he paused, throwing Harry a cheeky wink. “Naturally, I bought myself two jackets.” Soft chuckles echoed around the room, Edith scribbling a note beside Malik’s name on her notepad.

The gentle buzz of noise died down, and she continued, “that leaves Sports.”

As if on cue, Ethan Harper, the sports writer, let out a ghastly sneeze that sprayed half the room. He quickly fumbled for his handkerchief, blowing his bright red nose before letting out a pathetic whimper.

“’M sorry, E,” he mumbled, his voice coming out stuffy. “My PGA piece is in print, buh--” Sneeze. “Buh I think I’m going to be out fo’ awhile. Can’t even do my interviews—the athletes migh’ catch mah bug.”

She peered at him sharply, awkward silence taking over the room. Having a writer back out of a piece this late in the cycle was going to be nightmare.

“Alright,” she said, obviously trying to keep her annoyance at bay. “ _Who_ is willing to take on Ethan’s exclusive while he’s recovering?” It was an order phrased as a question.

The tension in the room was palpable, as heads turned away in an effort to avoid eye contact. Taking on another column, even temporarily, was a big commitment. _M™_ was a monthly magazine, and thus, there was usually a three week lead time before sending final drafts to print; time the writers needed to gather proper background information, schedule and conduct interviews; not to mention _actually_ write. With the issue due to print in little more than a week, this was crunch time for them - days they spent hammering out last minute drafts and editing early into the morning. It was also very likely that these highly specialized journalists knew next to nothing about sports writing.

Harry made a snap decision then, raising his hand slowly. Twelve pairs of eyes stared at him, Zayn quirking an eyebrow disbelievingly.

“I—I’ll—I mean,” Harry  stammered. He took a deep breath before croaking, “I’ll do it?”

It came out like a question. He cleared his throat. “I’ll do it,” he repeated firmly, leaving himself no time to reevaluate his rash decision.

He had been working at _M™_ for almost a year, with nothing but a few short blurbs and celebrity blind items under his belt. He was absolutely dying to write a full article, and this might be his only chance. Besides, he _loved_ sports. He knew all about sports – even the quirky ones. He played golf on the regular, for Pete’s sake. He could totally do this. It was probably some fluff piece about cricket or something. Easy peasy.

Edith’s lips were pursed, a mischievous quirk on the corner and her eyes twinkling. She regarded Harry, observing him from his shakily raised palm to his nervous eyes. She looked like she was about to pull the rug out from under him, but she agreed, with a small, tight nod.

“It’s settled,” she announced. “Harry will be writing the Tomlinson exclusive.”  

White noise filled Harry’s head as the cogs clicked into place. He nearly swallowed his tongue.

“T—Tomlinson? _Louis_ Tomlinson?!” he stammered, wide-eyed and panicked. “Arsenal striker Tomlinson?” His voice was shrill and pitchy. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm the fuck down.

Ethan huffed out a nasal laugh. “More like _pain-in-the-Arse_ nal Tomlinson.” He was suddenly overcome by a violent sneeze.

Edith rolled her eyes at Ethan momentarily, and then calmly directed her attention back to Harry. “Yes, the very same. His agent gave _M™_ an exclusive, 10-day interview for his first PR article since coming out.” She shifted her notepad on her lap and pinned Harry with another long stare. “His football season only just ended, and everyone is bending over backwards trying to get this scoop. We managed to beat out _Attitude_ , if you can believe it.” She smiled. “‘ _Ten with Tommo’_ —it’s really quite cute.”

Harry’s face was ashen, and his throat was very dry. It seemed he had stopped breathing. Was his first full article really going to be on one of Britain’s most talented pro-footballers? The _first_ confirmed homosexual footballer in the Premier league?

This was too much pressure for a first assignment, surely. Edith would be _insane_ to trust Harry, a glorified _intern,_  with this. Right?

He gulped down some air, preparing to say just that, when he caught Zayn’s curt head shake. His stern eyes firmly said, “Do _not_ back out.”

“Something to say, Harry?” Edith asked, clearly enjoying the rapid flash of emotions across his face. Another gulp of air.

“Only, um,” Harry squeaked, clearing his throat to buy himself some time. “W—why _ten_ days particularly?”

Edith looked like a cat that got the cream. She knew there was no backing out now. Harry would have to rise to the occasion or die trying. He fervently prayed for the former. “Five is too short, and we go to press in eleven,” she said simply, writing something swiftly in her notepad. Without looking up, she added, “Plus, it gives you a catchy alliteration for your title.”

She scribbled a few more things before looking up and declaring to everyone, “Dismissed.”

It was a mad scramble for the office door, with everyone excited to get out of the tense meeting space. Harry managed to make it out of the office with his breakfast still intact, but it was a close thing. His mind was going a mile a minute, realizing the extent of the mess he had gotten himself into.

He made a beeline for the kitchenette, nearly crushing the paper cup as he tried to fill it. Water, he needed water.

He gulped down a mouthful, and made to refill the cup when a soft hand landed on his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin, before turning around and recognizing Zayn.

“Take a breath, Haz,” he murmured, moving his palm soothingly across Harry’s back.

“Cricket, Zayn. I thought it was going to be a bloody fluff piece on cricket,” he moaned, dejectedly hanging his head. Zayn chuckled quietly, shaking his head back and forth.

“Well, you can’t do anythin’ now, can you?” he said simply, his hand never leaving Harry’s shoulders. They moved towards the cabinets, Harry resting his bum on the counter behind him, while Zayn reached up to grab his tea supplies. “It’ll look really bad if you back out, mate. She might never give you another chance, you know?”

Harry sighed. “I know, but like—” The paper cup was now a crumpled ball being tossed back and forth between his gigantic hands. “First of all, it’s football, yeah? Which is a big enough deal on its own.” He started picking at the rough edges of the paper ball, casually avoiding eye contact with Zayn. His inability to look up more than confirmed his nervousness though.

“And _then_ it’s Tomlinson,” Harry continued. “Who’s just--honestly, he’s _amazing_. Talent-coming-out-of-his-arse good. Like, I’m a proper fan, so getting two words out to him will be a fucking miracle.”

He was also a bloody fox, with his bluer-than-blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and perfectly trimmed stubble. “Beckham and then some!” a cheeky announcer had proclaimed the very first time Tomlinson had stepped onto the field at Emirates Stadium. But really, that was a problem for another day.

“And _then,”_ Harry breathed in harshly, bracing himself for his next tumble of words _,_ “it’s a coming out piece. His _first_ one, which, _no pressure_ or anything—I’m only writing the article that every slightly sexually confused teenaged boy is going to look back on for the _rest of their lives._ I’m now in-charge of influencing the next generation of non-heteronormative football fans, Jesus Christ!”

“Okaaay,” Zayn cut through the frantic rambling. “You seriously need to calm down,” He said, fishing his tea bag out of the boiling water.

“One,” Zayn started counting off the reasons on his fingers. “You love football and know everything about it, so that’s an incredible start. You know all the crazy sports lingo that like, _no one_ even uses. If I were writing it, it’d go something like...” He cleared his throat, putting on a cheesy booming announcer voice that could not be more at odds with his smooth, hand-tailored suit. “And, the ball’s with Tomlinson! He does the thing and wins the points!”

Harry let out a low chuckle, his chest loosening for the first time since he volunteered. He and Zayn made a very good team—knew exactly how to calm the other down in a high-pressure situation.

In fact, the first time they’d met, it had been Zayn sitting on the toilet floor with his head in his hands, suffering from a very ill-timed bout of writers’ block.

 

…

 

_Harry had just entered the M™ toilets, door swinging shut behind him, when he noticed someone sitting in the corner by the hand dryer._

_“Bloody. Buggering. Fuck.” The hunched figure had spat. He looked up at Harry, the stranger’s handsome features marred by panic. “I don’t remember words_ , _” he had cried, strangled, as Harry had walked toward him, sliding down next to him on the floor._

 _“Well, you clearly remember some words_ , _” Harry had chirped genially, placing his hand gently on the stranger’s shoulders. Harry had always been comfortable with being tactile, so he often forgot that other people might not be. He had been about to extract his arm, but Stranger had leaned into his touch. Not one of those, then, Harry had thought pleasantly. “Besides, there’s this new fangled doohickey called ‘the Internet’. It can tell you lots of words. All the words, even. In Spanish, if you need it.” This had pulled a reluctant chuckle out of the distressed boy, who then introduced himself as Zayn._

_Fifteen minutes later, after Zayn had found all his words, frantically typing up his overdue article, he had placed a small cup of tea on Harry’s brand new office desk._

_“Thanks. I owe you one.” Zayn had said with a smile, walking away._

 

…

 

Zayn handed Harry a cup of tea again, wrenching the poor paper ball out of his hands, before continuing his initial list. “Two, how often do you get to meet a hero? I’m sure he’s wicked cool. You might even become great friends with ‘Better Than Beckham’, or whatever his nickname is,” he reasoned, clearly not caring that he had gotten the tagline wrong.

He held up three fingers directly in Harry’s line of sight. “Three, and most important,” he emphasized earnestly. “This is not just _some_ article, you know? This piece—it’s going to make such a difference. It would have meant so much to you and I at fifteen, Harry, right?”

Harry nodded solemnly, thinking of his own struggle with realizing his sexuality. It would have made a world of difference if someone he looked up to had come out publicly at the time.

“So imagine,” Zayn continued, gesturing above his head grandly. “All the people who are going to read about this famous, successful, _gay_ footballer—which is like, incredible in and of itself, to be in professional sports and come out—and finally get the confidence to be themselves.” Zayn said certain things with so much zeal and passion; it was a little difficult to marry this version of him with his cool and collected office persona. Harry was glad he was allowed to see both sides of his friend.

Zayn pointed at Harry’s chest. “ _You_ get to write that. _You_ get to tell people that story. That’s a damn lot better than cricket and a fashion show.”

Harry smiled down at his tea.

“You’re really good at this pep talk stuff, Malik,” he laughed, slouching down to lean his head on Zayn’s shoulder. “You should be like, a life coach or something.”

“Kindly shut the fuck up,” Zayn laughed, lightly punching him on the arm. “Let’s get back to work.” They both straightened, clinking their mugs together before gulping down the last of their tea, and exiting the kitchenette.

 

\---

 

Louis was seated on his coffee table with a damp towel around his neck, his freshly shampooed hair dripping freely onto the hardwood floors. He was hunched forward, leaning on his knees, bare toes curled inward. “I’ve decided I don’t want to do the interview,” he stated simply.

Across from him, Liam’s eyes seemed to pop straight out of his head. “Louis!” he shrieked. “You’re telling me this _now_ ?! You’re literally meeting the writer _tomorrow_ !” Liam scrubbed his face, infuriated. This was _so_ like Louis; he didn’t know why he was surprised.

“Oh, calm the fuck down, Liam!” Louis said, getting up from his seat and crossing the room to the kitchen. He lifted himself up on his tiptoes and opened the cabinet, feeling around blindly for his tea.

 _Why are these things so bloody high?_ he thought to himself as he finally pulled out the box of Yorkshire, all the way in the back.

“Tea, you two?” he addressed both his frustrated manager and his bleach-blonde best friend, who were seated side-by-side on the couch.

“Ya got beer, Tommo?” Niall called over his shoulder, finally looking away from his solitary game of FIFA. He had spent most of the morning with his forehead scrunched up in concentration, trying to beat the programmed video game. So far, he’d lost all three games so badly, you’d never believe he played football for a living.

“It’s not even noon, Horan,” Liam commented, exhaustion coloring his voice.

“It is somewhere,” Niall retorted, happily back to losing his fourth game in a row. Louis pulled two mugs from the cabinet as he put the kettle on the stove. While waiting for the water to boil, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, popping the top open and sliding the cool bottle over the back of the couch to Niall. He heard Liam sigh heavily and saw him rub his eyes, before opening them and looking tiredly back at Louis.

They stared at each other in silence. The kettle made a whistling sound, and Louis turned around, going back into the kitchen to put the tea together. Handing Liam his tea as a peace offering, he started, “Just hear me out.”

Liam nodded his head in defeat, looking at Louis, intent on hearing his reasoning.

“They’re going to ask me all these personal things, Li. Things I haven’t even figured out myself,” he sighed deeply, sitting himself across from the two men again.

He saw Niall pause the game and discreetly put the controller away, clearly understanding the gravity of the topic.

“Things like...” Louis took a slow sip of his tea to mask the waver in his voice. “Have I slept with anyone, or who my celebrity crush is. What’s my type? What’s my ideal date? Do I top or bottom?” He saw Liam cringe at that last one, about to open his mouth and protest. Louis held up his hand, signaling he was not finished.

“I know. I _know_ you vetted this one, Li, and that it’s supposed to be about me, and my struggle, and my career. But you can’t expect people to not want to know those things, yeah?” Louis asked rhetorically, eyes widening. “That’s what these magazine writers are always after, right? The juicy bits?” He rolled his eyes as he said it.

Before coming out, he and Liam had discussed a press plan. They had both agreed to confirm his sexuality at the beginning of the football season, seeing as most of his team already knew he was gay, and the club was surprisingly supportive. All articles and press were to be discussed afterward, when Louis could fully focus on his personal life without it getting in the way of football.

The PR embargo had, unfortunately, not deterred less reputable media from writing whatever the hell they pleased. And though he had expected some backlash and name-sullying, he now completely detested journalists—writing them all off as vultures who didn’t seem to give a damn if someone’s four little sisters were being teased about whether their elder brother ‘liked it in the _Arse_ nal’. Thanks a lot, Daily Mirror.

Liam got up to sit on Louis’ right, pulling him into a hug and dropping a kiss in his hair. He nuzzled closer to Liam, saying a silent thank you to whatever deity had sent him this gigantic, earnest, golden retriever of a manager, with his fitness obsession, ridiculous abs, and kind smile. He had heard of other professional athletes who were continuously bullied into some twisted public persona by their ruthless management teams in an effort to make a quick buck.

Liam was so different; always looking out for Louis, even if it meant toeing the line of insubordination at the firm he answered to.

Louis’ mushy thoughts were interrupted, Niall tackling all three of them to the floor in a brutally crushing hug.

“Oof!” Liam huffed out.

A deep belly laugh jumped out of Louis, as he wrapped his arms around his two boys. One of them always knew exactly how to diffuse an overly emotional situation.

“I was gettin’ jealous all by me’self.” Niall announced, flattening himself even more on top of ‘Lilo’. (“Like the Disney movie, lads!” he had told them one day, declaring it was too taxing to continue referring to them separately.)

Louis laughed and kicked out his feet, forcing Niall to jump back up and settle on the couch. Liam, frowning down at his now wrinkled suit, settled at the opposite end of the sofa, at least an arm’s width away from an excitable Niall.

“Listen, Lou,” he said, picking up from their conversation earlier. “I know all the articles after your coming out were awful—“

“Horrendous,” Niall confirmed, with a sip of beer.

Liam threw him a glare.

“What?” Niall chirped innocently. “‘M just being honest.” He said, shrugging. He fell to his left and rested his head on a reluctant Liam’s lap. As Niall stretched out his legs, Liam gave in, carding his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. Really, with these two around, Louis did not need dogs.

“—but,” Liam continued, firmly, “I think this is your chance to take control of the situation. Head it off at the pass, so to speak.” Louis bit his bottom lip, chewing at it nervously.

Having not yet been interrupted, Liam barreled on.

“If you don’t give some sort of interview,” he explained, “some firm stance saying ‘Yes, I’m totally gay, what of it?’, these tabloids will just continue printing all kinds of shit, you know? They’ll have you dating everything with a dick in a week’s time—including most of your teammates.”

Louis scrunched up his nose in disgust. _As if_ . He loved those boys like family, definitely, and would take a bullet for most of them. But that’s exactly why he’d never get involved with a teammate. They were his _brothers_. He’d seen them at their most disgusting, most unattractive moments and would not be caught dead dating any of them, Niall included. He voiced this aloud, to Niall’s offense.

“I’ll have you know, I’d make an _excellent_ boyfriend,” he scoffed. “I’d be proper romantic—flowers, candy, endless food...”

“How ever will Louis survive the loss?” Liam said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Niall stuck out his tongue, Liam ignoring it and circling back to the earlier conversation. “The _point_ is, this is the moment to make that exact fact clear. Say all you want to say. Do this your way.”

The last phrase made something click inside Louis’ head, and he tried to hide the smile blooming over his features.

“You’re going to let me do this my way, Payno? For real?” he asked, trying to keep the mischievous lilt out of his voice. If he could get Liam to agree to this, no holds barred, Louis was going to have a lot of fun with this interview.

Liam, clearly desperate to secure the deal, was about to answer an enthusiastic yes, when it dawned on him that this was _Louis_ he was talking to.

“Your way _with_ guidelines.” He affirmed. “You can’t sneak the word _‘dick’_ in every quote so they can’t use anything they’ve recorded.  And you can’t randomly mouth ‘vagina’ when the camera pans to you, either!” He rushed to add.

Niall’s loud laugh echoed through the living room. No one could forget Louis’ very first professional interview, in which he did exactly that and nearly got Liam’s career as a manager flushed down the toilet.

In Louis’ defense, it had been a stressful time. He was more mature now. He also liked to believe he had more creativity than to repeat an old prank, insanely epic though it was.

“With guidelines,” Louis agreed, sticking his palm out for a handshake. Though Liam nodded, he did not miss the glint of trouble sparking in Louis eyes. _The things I do for my job,_ he thought, placing the fate of his career in Louis’ hands, once again.

 


	2. Day 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta @tempolarriefix and my lovely Britpicker @neveragainsimon. <3
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of complete fiction, and is in no way reflective of the real characters of the boys or their families/friends. I am in no way affiliated with them or their team.
> 
> Love on the Weekend - John Mayer

_ “Hello, Harry Styles speaking, how may I help you?” Harry had answered the office phone with a polite chirp. _

_ He had been much cheerier after the morning meeting, having been treated to lunch by Zayn to celebrate his first real assignment. They had spent the hour brainstorming important points for his meeting with Tomlinson’s team the next day, and Harry had been in the middle of checking his notes when the office phone rang. _

_ “Hi, Harry,” A gentle voice said through the line. “My name is Liam Payne, I’m with Louis Tomlinson’s management?” _

_ “O-Oh, hello!” Harry had stammered, sitting up straighter and smoothing out his shirt, though obviously Liam could not see him. “Um, hi, M-Mr. Payne. How may I help you?” He had repeated nervously, leaning across the table to grab a pen and a Post-it. _

_ “I’m just calling to reschedule tomorrow’s meeting.” Liam had continued. “I know we had it set for 9am, but um,” Something in Liam’s voice had registered as uneasy. Harry had almost been able to envision him chewing on his lip. “You see, Louis—he’d like to meet earlier, if you’re available.” _

_ “Oh, yeah! Sure, of course!” Harry had breathed, relieved. He had thought Liam was calling to cancel their meeting, or put it off ‘til next week. He couldn’t risk waiting, in case Ethan made a spectacular recovery and suddenly asked for his article back. Earlier, though, he could definitely do. In fact, the earlier the better. “What time was he thinking? 7am?” Harry had asked, drawing a little star on the orange Post-It with his pen. _

_ “Four, actually.” _

_ Harry had nearly slid off of his desk chair in surprise, the cord of the phone dragging office supplies out of place noisily. He had scrambled to get the rolling pens before they tumbled to the floor. _

_ “Oh, um, four? In the morning?” He had tried to phrase it like a clarification, instead of the absurdity it really felt like. A dawn interview was quite an eccentric request, at least to Harry’s knowledge, especially considering it was off-season. The last thing he wanted, though, was to give the impression of being difficult or unavailable. _

_ “Yes,” Liam had confirmed. “I know it’s a bit… weird, but, I checked with your editor and she assured me we had you for the entire ten days.” For a while there was muffled movement on Liam’s end of the phone, a voice in the background that Harry couldn’t understand. Then the line cleared, and Liam’s voice had continued. “Sorry, are you still there?” _

_ Harry had had to physically shake himself out of his reverie. “Yes, four a.m., perfect.” He had heard himself say, before Liam had offered a quick goodbye, with a promise to text him the address. _

…

 

**TUESDAY**

 

And that is how Harry found himself outside a rather ostentatious estate at four in the bloody morning the next day. The cold dawn air sent a shiver down his back as he peered through the gate at the house. Against the dark sky, the grounds shone like a beacon, even though the lights lining the pathway to the entrance had clearly been dimmed. It was the only source of light for miles, and Harry was genuinely surprised that it made the bus route.

With a deep breath, he adjusted his messenger bag on his shoulder and steeled himself, trudging to the left to ring the doorbell. He hoped that someone was awake; otherwise he’d be spending the next two hours sitting on the gravel outside the gate.

As he pressed the button, the intercom came alive with a buzz. “Yes?” A raspy voice called through it.

“Oh, um, hi.” Harry said, lifting his hand in a wave before realizing no one could see him. He quickly put his arm down. “Harry Styles, writer for M™ Magazine? I’m here for—for an interview with, um, with Mr. Tomlinson?”

“Are you not sure?” The disembodied voice asked.

“No, I—I definitely am. Here for an interview with Mr. Tomlinson, I mean.” Harry silently cursed himself. His nerves were getting the better of him and he hadn’t even met the man. He had to get it together before he made a complete arse of himself; before Tomlinson and team could sense they’d been sent a rookie, instead of a real sports journalist.

“Come inside and head straight to the back.” The voice instructed gruffly. With a long buzz, the gate swung open, startling Harry. He hurried onto the pathway, looking over his shoulder as it swung closed automatically.

Breaking into a brisk walk, his trainers crunching on the gravel, he made a beeline for the patch of grass on the left, silently hoping that it led to ‘the back’. He was met with a rather short wrought iron gate, the spires ending just at his eyelevel. It had been left ajar, and creaked a bit when he pushed it wider and walked through.

He stood dumbfounded, looking at what could only be described as a personal football pitch. Two practice goalposts, half as wide as the standard professional ones at a stadium, sat on opposite ends of the meticulously cut green. The pitch was divided lengthwise into three, with different drill equipment set up from end to end.

Small neon yellow cones at the farthest side of the field glowed in the soft white lights that shone from even spaces on the ground. The sides of the garden were encased in a thicket of trees, the shortest in the front building a barricade backward, until a layer of pines blocked the outside world completely. If Harry squinted his eyes, he could imagine bleachers filled with fans in a towering dome around him.  _ What. The actual. Fuck. _

A figure walked towards him from the other end, with a football perched leisurely on his right hip. He was dressed in what looked like a practice kit complete with knee high socks and football boots, a sports hoodie wrapped around his lithe frame. He stopped about three feet away from Harry, throwing the football directly at his chest, knocking a puff of air harshly from his lungs.

“You’re late.” Louis Tomlinson said, fixing him with a less-than-impressed stare.

Harry gaped, standing stock-still and holding the ball in place. He had been expecting a crew of people—a manager and some assistants, maybe even groupies—to meet him; a whirlwind of chaos answering all of his need-to-know questions about the rising star with carefully pre-packed press statements. Instead he was faced with soft brown hair, icy blue eyes, and a sharp tongue, hip cocked to the side as if demanding an explanation.

Fumbling, Harry lifted his wrist and examined his watch, eyes darting across its face. 4.07 am, it read.

“’M sorry, Mr. Tomlinson,” He managed meekly. “But Mr. Payne said four. Have I got it wrong?” Harry’s forehead creased with worry. Had he really been late? Had he really made  _ the  _ Louis Tomlinson wait? Oh my god, he was going to get fired, he realized frantically. He swallowed and looked down at his slightly pigeon-toed feet, embarrassed.

“We  _ begin _ promptly at four. Hopefully it doesn’t take you 10 minutes to make your way back here every morning.” Louis answered, crossing his arms and jutting his chin up slightly. He was literally trying to look down his nose at Harry, but the effect wasn’t quite there, what with Louis being almost five inches shorter. “Just be earlier tomorrow.”

_ Tomorrow? Earlier? _ The words swam around Harry’s head as he tried to puzzle out their meaning. Before he could ask, Louis marched over to the cones, Harry quickly trailing behind him. Louis turned and appraised him, head to toe, and back again.

Harry fidgeted, hand caught in the hem of his loose, black jumper. He had sleepily thrown on a pair of black jeans, and quickly opted for trainers over boots, considering the nature of Louis’ job and assuming he’d be on his feet most of the day, anyway.

Their eyes met, and Harry recognized a flash of mischief. “You’ll be fine in those,” Louis said, almost bored. “Just remove your scarf and coat. They might strangle you.”

Letting go of the football he was still holding, Harry unwound his scarf, ducking his head slightly as he tried to get out of the loop.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

“Drills, Mr. Styles, keep up.” Louis sighed, rolling his eyes as he grabbed Harry’s scarf and tossed it behind him. It landed on a small plaid blanket Harry hadn’t noticed before, carefully spread out on a far corner of the grass. “Coat, phone, and bag, there as well.” Louis instructed, gesturing to his scarf on the blanket. “I’d throw a little… I dunno,  _ thing _ , around your hair. You’ll be sweating.” He continued easily, flicking his wrist to gesture at Harry’s chin length curls.

“Oh, I—this is like, a huge honor and everything, but I—“ Harry stammered. “I’m really quite terrible at, um, football, so I—“ It occurred to him that forming sentences should not be this hard for a journalist. He took a deep breath and surged on. “I can just ask some quick, uh, quick questions and get out of your way.”

He looked up to find Louis with his arms crossed over his chest, an eyebrow raised as if to say ‘are you  _ quite _ finished?’ Harry’s lips snapped shut immediately.

Louis stepped up to him, so close that Harry could feel the breath from his nose tickle his chin. He looked up at Harry from behind his long lashes. Harry gulped. Handsome, hot, and hero-worship were a terrible mix, he thought dumbly, trying to clear his head.

“Let me make myself clear,” Louis crooned, voice sweet, deadly, and so close to his ear. “We do this my way, or not at all. Got it, Curly?”

Harry nodded jerkily.

“Good boy.” He play-whispered airily.

Harry tried to suppress the shiver that was making its way down his spine.

Louis took one step back and smiled, pointed canines peeking out of his slightly open mouth. “Rules. For the next ten days, you do everything I tell you to do, and I answer your questions. Simple, no?”

Harry nodded again, cornered. This is what it must feel like, making a deal with the Devil. Lightning fast, and all too simple; he was essentially relinquishing control of his life without bothering to read the fine print. In the back of his mind, Harry had a vague idea of the trouble he was getting himself into, but really, what could he do? This article could jumpstart his entire writing career, and there was no way he was getting this done without Louis. Also, Harry thought idly, though he had already known Louis would be attractive, he was devastatingly handsome up close—a dizzying combination of sharp lines, and soft curves. It really was very hard to think.

“Great.” Louis said brightly. “Coat and so on, on the blanket.” He schooled his features into an authoritative smirk, his voice going from sweet and sexy to professional so quickly it gave Harry whiplash.

Harry, after hurriedly divesting himself of his loose belongings, went to stand beside Louis. He looked forlornly at the row of cones. He thought back to the quote he had scribbled on his first day at M™, the paper now fraying, tacked to his cubicle wall.

_ ‘Journalism is, in fact, history on the run.’ _  He didn’t think Thomas Griffith had meant it quite so literally.

“So, this,” Louis began, gesturing around the pitch. “Is my off-season routine. Trust me when I say it’s not even half as taxing as drills during the season. It’s designed to keep me in shape, and make sure I don’t get winded when I get back to regular practice.” He maneuvered the loose football, and held it in position with his foot. “Off-season schedule—four a.m., personal training, light team practice from six thirty to eight, breakfast, and then gym at nine-thirty.”

Harry was growing tired just from hearing about it.

“Light lunch at noon,” Louis continued. “And then whatever PR and management meetings in the afternoon. If I’m lucky, I can get home by three p.m., and have a quick nap before seeing friends or something. If I don’t have plans, I swim in the early evenings, have dinner, and then read.” Harry noticed him smile to himself, and quickly inferred that party-boy Louis Tomlinson surprisingly enjoyed quiet nights reading at home.

Harry fish mouthed, absorbing his dictated schedule. He mentally tried to figure out how many hours Louis clocked exercising before he even had a bite to eat. Obviously Louis was a professional athlete, so a stringent regimen like this was par for the course. What stole Harry’s attention was that this was his  _ off-season _ routine. He was almost scared to ask what the regular agenda was like.

“Today, and every day for ten days,” Louis practically sang, eyes shining with mirth. “You, Mr. Styles, will be shadowing me during personal training, gym, and night swims, if I so request. You may sit and watch during team practice, as I obviously can’t work you into the official roster—it’d just throw everyone off.” He dribbled the ball casually and continued speaking.

“You will accompany me to photo shoots, interviews, everything work related, and any and all social events. Everything  _ except _ for meetings with my PR and management teams. There’s a confidentiality clause or some other such bullshit that I didn’t feel like questioning.” He rolled his eyes. “In other words,  _ Styles _ ,” he drawled, dragging out the last S. “Consider this your exclusive, ten day crash course. All Tomlinson. All. The. Time.” He punctuated the last word with a bright, slightly manic smile, and Harry would not lie—he was marginally frightened. The next ten days sounded like some ridiculous fraternity initiation.

Harry snorted at the thought. “Will I also have to scrub your toilet naked, or sing a Spice Girls medley in lace knickers?” His hand quickly flew to his mouth but the words were out before he could control himself. He felt himself flush bright red.

“You really shouldn’t be giving me ideas.” Louis smirked cheekily. “Those were very specific, by the way. Something to share?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow.

If possible, Harry’s blush deepened. He clamped his lips together and shook his head, eyes finding their way back to his feet.

Louis kicked the ball up from his foot to his knee, and then caught it in his palms. Tossing it to Harry, he jerked his head towards the row of cones. “C’mon, stretches and then zig zags.” He said, spreading his legs wide and bending forward, almost in half.

Harry was in such deep shit.

 

\---

 

So, the journalist was cute. That, Louis was not expecting. Most sports journalists were brutishly large and full of machismo, almost always trying to ‘out lad’ the athletes they interviewed by sharing cruder jokes and bragging about their unnecessarily strenuous exercise routines. Harry Styles, it seemed, was the opposite.

Six feet tall and lightly muscular with startling green eyes and a winning smile enhanced by two tragically delectable dimples, he seemed so much more suited to writing pastry recipes than a sports column. True to his earlier warning, he had no physical coordination whatsoever, and it seemed his own feet were more of an obstacle than the cones on the ground. Every time he tripped, or did something wrong, he would pick himself up and laugh, chastising himself good-naturedly.

“I—I’m so terrible, sorry.” He’d say, flushing sweetly and wiping sweat off his brow. A few wayward curls plastered themselves to his temples, the rest of his hair gathered thoughtlessly in a bun on his head.

He was very nervous and it caused him to stutter. A lot. It was adorably dorky, and Louis found himself strangely charmed by the fact that Harry spent all his energy on trying to get through the blasted course, and absolutely none on masking his jitters.

The drills that usually took Louis no more than forty-five minutes had extended to an hour and a half with Harry, and Louis found himself making it to practice just by the skin of his teeth.

He jogged up to his circle of teammates, already raising his arms above his head, mimicking their stretches.

“Tommo!” Niall called brightly, starting a rumble of greetings. Louis was met with smiles and a few lazy waves as he wedged himself between two of the forwards, Ollie and Theo. Everyone’s right legs jutted out into the middle of the circle, and the team stretched forward in a unified lunge.

“Who’s the kid?” Rowan asked, jerking his chin up and motioning to the bleachers. Though he didn’t have to, Louis turned his head and saw Harry seated in one of the boxes, laptop out and typing furiously. He turned back to his teammate.

“Journo,” he said. “They assigned him my personal feature for that men’s magazine.” Another rumble of acknowledgement as they began to jog in place, switching it up quickly to high knees.

“’S cute.” Sam said, throwing Louis a cheeky wink. “Not even back a day and wasting no time, huh, lad?”

The team laughed as Louis clutched his chest in mock surprise. “Samuel, may I remind you that  _ I _ am the ‘gay one’. I will  _ not _ have you rob me of the title I worked so hard for.”

Sam threw his head back, overcome with laughter.

“I absolutely refuse to be relegated to ‘underdog’ and ‘rising star’ in the daily rags.” Louis continued, putting faux force and an overdramatic pitch to his voice.

“Yer breakin’  _ all _ the stereotypes, aren’t ya, Lou?” Niall cackled.

The sound of the coach’s whistle interrupted their easy banter, and the boys broke their formation to jog to the center of the field. The drill equipment, similar to what Louis owned at home, lay spread out across one half of the pitch.

The team huddled, and after a brief pep talk and congratulations for a great season from George, their captain, practice officially began.

 

\---

 

Two quick whistles signaled the end of the practice game, and the players, sweaty and happily exhausted, lined up to shake hands. The goodwill routine ended, and Louis lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, walking towards the end of the field. Sam jogged up to him and slid an arm around his shoulders.

“You know,” He began, smiling widely at Louis. “You never actually said he  _ wasn’t _ cute.” He quickly pivoted to run backwards, throwing Louis a wink and mimicking guns with his hands. Louis laughed at the cheesiness, and threw him the finger playfully as Sam sprinted into the locker room.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out Harry’s figure heading towards the benches beside the lockers. He paused by the water cooler and took a big glug to give Harry time to get down to the pitch. As he put down his jug, he was met with Harry’s earnest smile.

“You were great!” He gushed, words tumbling out of his mouth rapidly for the first time that day. “I’ve never watched a practice session before and it was really cool, the way you guys read each other. Their fakes  _ never _ work on you. It was, um, a-amazing.” He finished with a flush, as if just realizing to whom he was speaking.

“Thanks.” Louis said easily, purposely throwing Harry only the smallest of smiles.

_ He may be a dork, but he’s still after a story, _ Louis thought to himself. He refused to let his guard down so easily. Harry’s smile faded slightly at his clipped tone, and Louis noticed his hands picking nervously at a loose thread in his jeans. “I’m just going to take a quick shower, and I’ll meet you here afterward.” He said, gentling his tone into something friendlier.

“Oh, sure!” Harry said brightly. “I’ll just work on my notes and things.” He plopped down on the bench and took out his laptop, cheerily placing it on his lap as Louis walked towards the team rooms. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Harry scrolling through something, an adorable smile still curling at the corners of his mouth.

_ Who is this kid? _ Louis thought to himself. He turned towards the locker room as he smiled involuntarily around the mouth of his water jug. He sped up his steps, almost scared that Harry would catch him grinning like a lunatic for no apparent reason.

As he entered, he noticed most of his teammates were already clean and dressed. He would probably be the last one out, then. He opened his locker, grabbing his phone before tossing his sweaty jersey in. He’d worry about the smell tomorrow.

He unlocked his screen and found a missed call and three texts from Liam.  _ Weird _ , he thought. Between him and Niall, Liam had the Arsenal practice schedule memorized by heart and never called if he knew Louis couldn’t pick up. He pulled up the messaging app, opening his and Liam’s thread.

 

**Office, ASAP. (7.35 am)**

**Skip the shower. (7.36 am)**

 

And then, as if he realized just how alarming his messages sounded, he added:

 

**Not about ur family, sorry to scare u. (7.40 am)**

 

Louis breathed a sigh of relief. If it wasn’t about his family, he would  _ not  _ skip the shower, thanks very much. He reeked of sweat and sunscreen, and refused to spend half the morning in his dirty practice kit. Louis had also learned early on that, though Liam was usually organized and quite calm, he had days when he was prone to panic. Still, his manager’s rushed texts piqued his curiosity, and he found himself jumping in and out of the shower, his skin barely passing for clean.

He threw on his change of clothes, stuffed his duffle with his uniform and boots, and grabbed his car keys, running out the door and almost straight into Harry.

_ Shit. Harry. _

“Woah!” Harry laughed, steadying Louis by the arm. He glanced at his face and suddenly saw the worry creasing his forehead. “Oh, um, is everything alright?”

“Hey, yeah,” Louis rushed out. “Liam texted and there’s some sort of PR emergency, or something. Can we rain check the interview questions until tomorrow?” He felt guilt creeping up on him. Harry had been such a good sport earlier during drills, and all of a sudden Louis couldn’t keep up his end of the bargain.

“Yes, of course, no problem.” Harry assured with a gentle smile. “As long as you’re really alright?”

Something warm bloomed in Louis’ chest, and he couldn’t hold back his small smile.

“I’m fine, Styles, I swear.” He confirmed. Harry grinned at him and stepped back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He said, lifting his hand in a wave and turning to walk in the opposite direction.

“Four a.m.,  _ don’t _ be late.” Louis joked.

He spun on his heel and heard Harry’s uncharacteristically cheeky call of “Yes, Mr. Tomlinson.”

Louis walked to the parking lot and jumped into his car, propping his phone up on the dashboard. He dialed Liam’s number quickly, putting his phone on speaker as he backed out of the lot. After a couple of rings, the phone turned busy, signaling that Liam had rejected his call. Louis frowned. Why would Liam leave him crazy urgent messages and then screen his call?

He was so lost in thought that he was surprised to find himself pulling into the parking lot at his management’s office building. He had driven on autopilot for fifteen minutes, running various emergency-but-not-family-related scenarios through his head. It was only as he stepped out of the car that his thoughts found their way back to the quirky journalist he had spent the morning with, and he suddenly realized he and Harry had taken his car to the stadium. Pulling his phone out of his pocket with the intent to check that Harry had found a bus or a cab home, it hit him that he didn’t have his number.

“Never mind,” He murmured to himself as he pushed 15 th on the lift panel. He’d ask Liam for Harry’s mobile once this strange meeting was over.

 

\---

 

Louis closed his eyes, took a deep, calming breath, and literally bit his tongue. He could feel Liam radiating fury to his right, almost turning purple in a valiant effort not to curse at his bosses. Louis loved Liam, he really did. He blinked his eyes open, but found the knot in his chest had not loosened. Three management executives were seated in front of him, patiently awaiting his blow up.

He would not give them the satisfaction. Instead, he smiled, calm but vicious. “No.” He said simply.

Catherine Gallagher, PR Manager, threw up her arms and rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Louis. Could you cooperate for one second? Liam thinks it’s a great idea!”

Liam’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “I most certainly  _ do not _ !” He huffed indignantly. “I said it was up for discussion,  _ with _ Louis, Catherine.”

“Just the other day, you agreed that a boyfriend would dispel any promiscuity talk! Grease the wheels of his coming out and protect his image!” She shrieked defensively.

“In theory! I didn’t know you were going to go behind my back and text every bi-curious male model from London to L.A.!” Liam was standing now, a step away from stomping his foot in a tantrum, the vein in his neck bulging from the stress. “You’ve practically set up a casting call!”

If Louis weren’t so overwhelmed, he’d be laughing. He’d never heard Liam speak to any of his superiors like that, no matter how dire the situation. He stood up and gently rubbed Liam’s shoulders, guiding him back into his seat.

“Oh, don’t be overdramatic! Three, Liam. I called three prospects. You act like I put an ad in the bloody paper.” Louis could see Liam biting down on his fist in an effort not to answer. Catherine turned her attention to Louis, her eyes begging for him to cooperate. “ _ Please _ Louis, it would be so good for your story.”

Louis laughed humorlessly. “Will it, really? Because as I recall, coming out was supposed to ‘humanize’ me. Brand me an ‘ _ honest _ man’, I think Martin’s words were, exactly.” He said, gesturing to the balding man on Catherine’s right. He was seated on the armrest of a chair, swinging his legs impatiently.  “I don’t see how organizing a  _ fake _ relationship is really complementing that image.” He spit out the word ‘fake’, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Well, truthfully,” Richard cut in, from Liam’s right. “You don’t really have a say anymore. River Jordan James’ people have already agreed.”

“River Jordan—“ Louis blurted, incredulous, just as Liam shrieked, “You  _ can’t _ be serious!”

“Liam!” Catherine bit out. “He’s fucking _gorgeous_ and has 5.8 million Instagram followers! That’s double what Lucky Blue Smith has, what the bleeding fuck could you have a problem with?”

“Um, he’s vapid? Entitled?” Liam started.

“Rude to his fans,” Louis offered, counting out the points on his fingers.

“Doesn’t know a bloody thing about sports, which is awful for someone ‘dating’ a  _ professional _ athlete.”

“He said he wasn’t a fan of Adele. It’s  _ Adele! _ ”

“Oh, oh!” Liam jumped in, excitedly, his arm raised in the air as if reciting in class. “Let’s not forget, he didn’t believe there was an  _ actual _ Jordan River, and nearly insulted the entire Christian community when he asked if it was somewhere in  _ China, _ because he’d love to go there!”

Louis and Liam were practically doubled over in laughter.

“Remember when he said, when he said—“ Louis cleared his throat and imitated RJJ’s famous drawl. “’I mea-uhn, I dunno-uh. I would kinduh rather it was like, for Joan  _ Rivers _ and Michael  _ Jordan _ , ya know? Like, I know  _ them. _ ’” Louis punctuated his impression with an eye roll, and Liam was laughing so hard, he slapped his knee.

Catherine gave them a few more seconds of laughter before she cut in abruptly. “Well, tough. He tweeted about Louis when he first came out, and tons of his fans are already ‘shipping’ them, so we thought it would be the most natural fit.” She said curtly, tossing her phone to Liam with the Twitter app open.

Liam flipped the phone right side up, as Louis peeked over his shoulder to read the tweet.

 

**River Jordan James (@theonlyRJJ):**

**So, is @Louis_Tomlinson single? ‘Cause, talk about a cute** **_Arse_ ** **nal. ;)**

 

Louis blinked. “Jesus,” he muttered, turning to Liam. “If I never hear another Arsenal pun, it’ll be too soon. Could we file a law to ban them, do you think?”

“I’ll check with legal.” Liam offered seriously.

“Is  _ he _ even legal? I honestly don’t know.” Louis continued thoughtfully.

Catherine tapped the table to get their attention. “Focus, boys! We’re launching #Louiver on Thursday morning, when he gets papped touching down at Heathrow.” She pulled out a flurry of papers, running her finger down a timetable on her desk.

“RJJ will immediately tweet something about being excited to see the Football Friendlies charity game on Sunday, where he will officially meet Louis,” she said, pinning him with a stern stare. Louis threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Louis will then post a cute photo on Instagram with the adorable caption ‘Rollin’, rollin’ down the River (thumbs up emoji)’ and we will let the media do the rest!” She said, leaning back into her desk chair.

“Well, since it’s all fucking  _ set _ , why the hell not?” Louis deadpanned. Liam sighed behind him.

“Louis, we’ve been in this business a long time. Just trust us on this, please.” Martin said, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

For a moment, Louis considered putting up a fight--a full-blown, age-old, hold-his-breath-’til-he’s-blue strop--but all that would do was keep them in this horrible room for even longer.  His management always got their way--he knew that from experience. 

If it wasn’t  _ this _ model, it would be another; another model, another charity match, another media circus--and truthfully, he was just so tired.

“Fine.” He sighed, resigned. “Whatever.”

 

\---

 

“I’m really sorry, Lou.” Liam apologized, breaking the sad silence that had enveloped the car as soon as he and Liam had shut the doors. They were supposed to be heading back to Liam’s flat to wind down with a couple of drinks, but Louis had ended up driving in aimless circles in an effort to rid himself of his awful mood. “I had no idea they would plan the whole thing without discussing it with us.”

“It’s alright, Liam.” Louis assured, switching on his turn signal at a corner. They were already about ten minutes outside the city with no idea where they were going, but Liam hadn’t complained. He was the best. “The business is like that, right? What can you do?”

“They could’ve at least picked less of a twat.” Liam huffed, leaning his head on the window dejectedly. “Now your first boyfriend is going to be a  _ himbo  _ who knows nothing about football.”

Louis cackled. “Right?  _ And _ I’m going to have to pretend to be  _ super _ into him. Everyone’s going to think I’m an idiot.”

“I can’t believe they’d rather have people think you’re a stupid wanker, than have people think you’re having casual sex. There is seriously something wrong with my line of work.” Liam commented off-handedly, his head lolling backwards onto the headrest.

Louis reached to his left, hand landing on Liam’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare quit on me, Payne. You’re the only one in that room looking out for my ‘cute  _ Arse _ nal’.” Liam barked out a laugh as Louis giggled. He switched on the radio just as John Mayer started crooning about love on the weekend.

 

_ Love on the weekend, love on the weekend, _

_ Like only we can, like only we can. _

 

“I wish there was a way we could hijack this bollocks plan.” Liam thought out loud. “Like, pull the rug out from under stupid Catherine, you know?”

“Yes.” Louis said, looking straight ahead. “At this point, I don’t even mind the fake relationship thing. I kind of just want to get back at them for cornering us.”

 

_ You be the DJ, I’ll be the driver. _

_ You put your feet up in the getaway car. _

 

“And get rid of fucking River Jordan James.” Liam scoffed.

Louis laughed, stepping on the gas as the wind whipped around them. If only.

 


	3. Day 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta @tempolarriefix and my lovely Britpicker @neveragainsimon. <3
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of complete fiction, and is in no way reflective of the real characters of the boys or their families/friends. I am in no way affiliated with them or their team.
> 
> Days With You - Snakehips ft. Sinead Harnett

**WEDNESDAY**

       

Louis was in a terrible mood today, of that much Harry was certain.

Harry had arrived at the estate at 3.50 am, beaming excitedly at his watch as he waited outside the gate. He was dressed correctly this time, in a gray workout hoodie and fitted black joggers, pumped for another go at the drills. He rang the doorbell and after being buzzed in, made his way to the back.

Removing his scarf and bag, he walked through the second gate quickly, setting the items aside on yesterday’s blanket. As he was straightening them, he heard a quiet rustle of grass from behind him.

He turned to throw a sleepy smile at Louis, but faltered as he took him in. Louis had deep bags under his eyes, and his brow was furrowed. The corners of his mouth were turned down in a deep frown, hands shoved into the pockets of his giant hoodie.

“Good morning.” Harry greeted, trying for a gentle smile.

“Morning.” Louis muttered sourly.

And that was literally the only thing he had said to Harry all morning.

Personal drills had been completed in silence, except for the exasperated “Hopeless,” Louis had muttered after Harry’s third failed attempt at the keepie-uppies. It had stung pretty badly, but to be fair, Harry defended, Louis had not intended to be heard. Still, being insulted by someone you admired wasn’t a great way to start the day. Harry swallowed the hurt and shrugged it off. So he wasn’t a star athlete; that wasn’t news to him.

The tense atmosphere continued on the drive to team practice. Harry had tried a few conversation starters that had received all of a grunt. By the third stilted question, he had given up, closing his eyes and pretending to nap to bypass the awkward ambiance.

Now, it was eleven o’clock, and they were sat in Louis’ car headed God knows where. Harry didn’t bother to ask, afraid to further upset the irritable footballer.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a squat building that could have easily been mistaken for a warehouse. One half of the wide gray gate had been propped open, people wheeling lights and equipment in and out. All the people milling about were dressed head-to-toe in black and chirping rapidly into mobile phones. The atmosphere reminded Harry of a beehive, everyone busy, busy, busy and _buzz, buzz, buzzing._

“Louis, my love!” Someone called loudly as Harry wrenched his right foot from the passenger seat, tugging his bag free and just managing to keep himself upright.

Squinting across the hood of the car, Harry saw a man walking towards them. He was clad in wide pants and a linen shirt, big shades shielding his eyes, the bald spot atop his head shining in the noon sunlight. He pulled Louis into a crushing hug, a quiet “Oof!” escaping him as he thudded against the stranger’s chest.

It took two long beats before Louis managed to pry himself out of Balding Man’s grasp—but not entirely. The enthusiastic hugger kept a hold on both his shoulders, and looked him up and down.

“Darling,” He said, dropping his arms and pouting dramatically. “You’re looking very tired. Are you ill?”

He played the part of a mother hen quite well, Harry noted, silently taking his place behind Louis.

“Hello Gérard,” Louis started, a tight smile flickering over his features. “I’m alright, thanks. Could do with a tea though.” He made a half turn to check that the doors of his car were locked, and then pocketed his keys, adjusting the aviators on his nose.

“Yes, we’ll attend to that as soon as you get inside.” Gérard dismissed with wave of his hand. “Where is Liam?” He cast his eyes around Louis’ head quickly, sharp gaze falling promptly on Harry.

He pushed his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, dragging his eyes slowly from Harry’s boots back up to his bashful face, before drawling, “Hell-o!” in happy surprise. Extending his hand delicately, he looked over at Louis and mouthed “Boyfriend?”.

“Gérard, this is Harry,” Louis said, touching the top of Harry’s arm. The gentle warmth of Louis’ hand made Harry smile softly. “He’ll be helping at the shoot today, instead of Li.”

“Hello, pleasure to meet you.” Harry chirped, placing his hand in Gérard’s for a firm shake. His mouth formed a flirtatious smile as his eyes darted across Harry’s features.

“The _pleasure_ ,” He practically moaned, “is mine.”

Harry could feel the tips of his ears burning bright red, and he caught Louis raising a challenging brow at Gérard’s back, lips pursed unhappily. Harry extracted his hand awkwardly and ran his fingers through his curls, desperate to dispel the embarrassment.

Gérard, unperturbed by Harry’s discomfort, turned and gestured for them to enter the building. “Come, come.” He said, his mischievous eyes never leaving Harry’s face.

 

\---

 

The productive disorder outside was nothing compared to the chaos that greeted them as they entered the studio. All kinds of lights and bulbs were scattered across the blank, white space, endless black cords taped in a maze around the floor. To the right, more lights bounced off of mirrors, with tall directors’ chairs propped in front of them. Every available surface was covered in cosmetics. In the farthest corner of the room were four racks filled to the brim with men’s clothing, fifteen pairs of shoes in a neat row under them.

The space was filled with the constant sound of cameras clicking, test shot after test shot interrupting the soft music humming through the speakers. The low buzz of conversation filled the studio completely, bouncing off the walls.

Harry thought back to his first M™ photo shoot. People had been barking orders left and right, rushing past him with walkie-talkies, cups of coffee, or five different shirts in desperate need of a steam. It had taken him ten minutes to decide to set up shop by the corner of the refreshment table--the perfect spot to be available enough to take orders, but still out of everyone’s way. He had then busied himself with making his own tea, only to have his cups snatched straight out of his hands, production assistants offering them up to satiate an angry boss or harried model.

Tightening his grip on his bag, he followed Louis to the hair and makeup station. He watched Louis smile at the glam team, and plop himself onto a chair with a tired sigh. Their eyes met in the mirror—soft green and cold blue.

“Can I, um, get you anything?” Harry offered, shrugging his left shoulder. “You mentioned tea, earlier?”

Louis pursed his lips, as if deciding whether or not to ignore him. “Yorkshire, splash of milk. Milk first.” He instructed, clipped. Harry nodded and Louis broke their gaze to put his sunglasses away.

Harry walked sullenly towards the buffet table, stacked high with paper cups and multiple thermoses of hot water, and quietly began to work on Louis’ tea. He let out an exasperated breath. Louis was being quite the diva today, and Harry was not enjoying it. He usually didn’t mind doing the dirty work—grabbing lattes or wiping up messes. It was all part of the job, and he took pride in his patience for things like that. Rude people, however, he could not stand.

_Honestly_ , he thought to himself, _if someone is spending time making a hot beverage to your liking, you really ought to say please and thank you._ Still, he wouldn’t let it bother him. Maybe something had happened to Louis yesterday, after he’d left the stadium. And anyway, he wasn’t going to give up on his assignment over something like Louis’ tantrum.

On his right, a tall shadow loomed over him, startling Harry out of his thoughts. An arm reached out to grab a paper cup, accidentally knocking a few others down.

“Blast,” A deep voice cursed softly. “Sorry.”

Harry looked up from the tea he was making, eyes following the man’s hands as he gathered the fallen cups and put them back in their place.

“Clumsy.” He said, turning away from the slightly unsteady tower.

“’S fine,” Harry reassured. “No harm done.”

He turned toward the voice. The man was an inch or two taller than Harry, with a head of black hair that fell in curls over his forehead. The darkness of his hair made his skin look soft and fair, his eyes a warm brown, framed by small creases by his temples.  A short beard ran across the lower half of his face, pink lips stretched in a smile. He was dressed, like everyone else, in a black shirt and black skinny jeans with the cuffs tucked into loosely laced combat boots.

“I haven’t seen you with this team before.” The stranger offered, waking Harry from his silent assessment. “Noah Ellis, photographer.” He stuck out his right hand. Two thick rings of black circled his bicep, a delicate flower tattoo below them on his inner arm. The contrast was quite pretty, Harry thought, dusting his hands on his jeans before taking Noah’s.

“Harry Styles, gopher.” He said with a smile.

Noah barked out a laugh.

“I’m with Louis Tomlinson.” He continued, sticking his thumb out to point to the figure sitting in the makeup chair behind him.

“Yeah, I’m a proper fan.” Noah confessed, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking backward on his heels. “I nearly pissed myself when they told me I was shooting him today. I’ve so desperately been wanting to meet him, I’m definitely going to humiliate myself.”

Harry laughed, ducking his head and tucking a curl behind his ear. “You’ll be fine. I did drills with him yesterday morning. It was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to do, bar none.”

“That can’t be _the_ most embarrassing thing, surely. No drunken calls to exes, or catastrophically awkward booty calls?” Noah asked.

Harry chuckled, but shook his head no.

Ellis mock gasped. “Extremely frightening nightmares where you show up naked to a lecture, maybe? You’ve clearly not lived!” He teased, taking his hand out of his pocket to pick at a loose thread on the tablecloth.

“It was football drills with a Premier League striker—who I am an embarrassingly huge fan of, by the way—and I tripped on a patch of loose grass.”

“Alright, that’s awful. I feel much better.” Noah laughed. Harry caught himself before he threw a playful punch at his arm.

Harry eyed the tea on the table, the steam rolling up from it. “I’ve… got to get this to him, actually.” He hesitated, biting his lip and pointing at the cup.

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Noah said. He jerked his head backward, gesturing to the area where the cameras were set up. “Come hang by there, later. You can see all his shots and tell me if you like them, yeah?”

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly, picking up the tea and walking backward. “Yes, I’m definitely going to spend the morning critiquing your work to your face.” He joked.

“Looking forward to it!” The photographer called brightly.

Harry turned around and shook his head on a laugh, making his way towards the makeup chair while smiling at his shoes. He looked up as he reached Louis, and happy green met stony blue once more in the mirror. Harry’s smile faded as he handed Louis his tea. He cleared his throat. “Here you go.” He mumbled.

Louis took a slow sip, his lips reforming the unhappy line. “It’s cold.” He said haughtily, though small curls of steam were billowing under his nose.

“Oh…” Harry sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I could make you another one, if you’d like.” His eyes searched Louis’ face for some sign that he was pulling Harry’s leg, being difficult on purpose. Where was the playful Louis he had met yesterday?

“I’d rather do it myself, thanks.” Louis declared, turning away.

“Right.” Harry exhaled, tired. “Well, just call if I can, um, help or anything.” He hitched his bag higher onto his shoulder, and turned around.

There was an empty chair by the corner, a ways away from Louis. It looked like a good spot to settle down, far enough away that Harry wouldn’t unknowingly irk him more than he already had, apparently. As Harry set his bag on the floor, he pulled out his laptop and opened his mailbox, diving into work to distract himself from Louis’ bad mood.

 

\---

 

Twenty minutes later, Harry had checked and responded to all his e-mails, including one from Edith commending him on the notes he had sent in yesterday evening. He scanned the tips she had given him: bullet points on what to focus on and sample questions that would politely wheedle out personal answers. He mentally crossed out the questions that were obviously a no-go in Louis’ sour mood.

He felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He pulled it out distractedly and noticed Zayn’s name flash across the screen. Before he could pull up the app, though, a shadow blocked his light.

He looked up, ready to ask whomever it was to kindly move out of the way, when his voice caught in his throat.

There stood Louis, completely and utterly flawless, looking for all the world like James Dean come back to life.

His hair had been blown upward and styled into a retro swoop above his head, leaving his forehead and temples clear. His facial hair, trimmed and shaped, framed his lips neatly. His already deep cheekbones had been contoured (a term Harry had learned from his sister) so they basically resembled sculpted marble, and there was a soft golden sheen dusting the crests of his cheeks.

Harry’s eyes finally settled on Louis’, the blue somehow bolder than they had been this morning. _Trick of the light_ , Harry convinced himself.

“You’re catching flies, Styles.” Louis said, rolling his eyes and pushing Harry’s jaw closed with the tip of his pointer finger.

“Uh… you look…” Harry stammered dumbly.

Louis’ left eyebrow rose, challenging Harry to finish his train of thought.

He couldn’t. “W-wh… How can I help?” Harry finally managed, gulping, his throat suddenly dry.

“You can hold these while I change.” Louis proposed, fishing his mobile, car keys, and wallet out of his pockets and placing them in Harry’s huge hands. “I’ll be on the studio floor in five, if you’d like to come watch.” Louis looked at him and just as he was turning on his heel, he added, “Do _try_ to refrain from flirting with any more people.”

The comment was scathing at best, and completely unwarranted. Harry’s cheeks burned. Whether from embarrassment, irritation, or both, he honestly didn’t know. He glared at Louis’ retreating back, biting his lip and counting to ten, trying to will the anger down.

He had _not_ been flirting with Gérard, _thank you very much_ . He had been friendly and professional, even in his discomfort. And besides, Gérard had only made that one, crude comment—the one about the ‘pleasure being his’. _The words themselves weren’t even flirtatious, just the tone!_ Harry thought to himself indignantly. How was he supposed to control what people said to him?

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, huffing like an angry toddler. He was one step away from stamping his foot.

All day, Louis had either ignored him or been rude, hissing irritated comments left and right, though Harry had absolutely no idea what he had done. He had followed Louis around like a lapdog, running his drills and fetching him tea, without even managing to squeeze in one good question. And now, he had the gall to insinuate that Harry was flirting on the job?

_Well, then._ Harry thought spitefully. _Might as well._

 

\---

 

Louis had no idea why he had even said it. He had immediately regretted it when he caught the short flicker of hurt that passed Harry’s features.

_Harry didn’t know,_ Louis realized, couldn’t tell that half the staff was eyeing him or that the makeup artists couldn’t go three seconds without swooning at his dimples. It wasn’t _his_ fault Gérard had spent the entire morning leering at him, had basically offered to mount him on sight at the gate. In fact, Louis had noticed Harry carefully extricating himself from all their interactions as quickly and politely as possible.

_Why does it even matter to you, you lunatic?_ Louis asked himself sternly.

He was just in an awful mood, he reasoned. That’s all. He and Liam had spent all night trying to find a way out of this absurd fake relationship, to no avail. It was making him anxious, irritable, and rude. _Especially to Harry,_ he thought regretfully. Harry, who had come in ten minutes early for drills this morning, and tried so sweetly to pull him out of his ridiculous strop; Harry, who had offered to make his tea— _twice_ —even after Louis was an arsehole to him.

Guilt welled in his stomach. He would apologize, he decided. Right after the shoot, when he and Harry were alone in the car, he’d apologize properly for his terrible attitude the whole day.

A deep, melodic laugh pulled him from his thoughts. He followed the sound to the area of the studio where all the lights and camera equipment were assembled. Beside a huge flat screen monitor, two tall, curly haired figures were facing each other and talking animatedly.

Harry had a huge smile on his face, his longish curls still piled in a messy bun on his head. His left hand was resting on his flat belly, while his right lightly touched the other man’s bulging bicep.

_Noah Ellis_ , Louis thought with a scowl.

Tall, dark, and exceptionally talented, Ellis was damn near impossible to get ahold of. The handsome young photographer had just returned from a three-year stint with National Geographic and was trying his hand at fashion photography, claiming he needed something that would allow him to settle down.

_‘What can I say?’_ his interview had quoted. _‘I’m ready to fall in love.’_ (Louis had read his profile in a magazine at the barbershop. There had been a long queue, okay?)

Louis walked closer to them, his ears perking up as bits of their conversation reached him.

“The tiger was, quite literally, on top of me, you know? I probably looked liked breakfast in bed.” Noah chuckled.

Even from a distance, Louis could see Harry’s eyes twinkle, his two dimples popping out as he cheekily said, “I imagine you did.”

Noah laughed, nervous but clearly pleased, looking down at the camera in his hands with a smile. Louis noticed a soft blush dusting his cheeks, Harry’s fingers never leaving his arm.

_Right, that’s enough._ Louis thought irrationally, marching over to them. “Sorry to interrupt,” He began, his tone soft and saccharine. Harry glanced up, eyeing him suspiciously. Noah looked up, too, and Louis saw him gulp, his eyes as round as saucers. Oh, this would be fun.

“Mr. Ellis? Hi, I’m… I’m a huge fan.” Louis admitted, peeking through his lashes and extending a hand bashfully. “Louis Tomlinson. I’ve wanted to introduce myself for a while but,” He gestured flippantly to his face and hair, laughing. “Hair and makeup held me hostage for a bit.”

Noah nearly dropped his camera trying to put it down and shake Louis’ hand all at once. “N-no! I—I mean, yes! I mean—“ He took a quick breath, gathering himself. “Call me Noah.” He finally got out, giving Louis’ hand one firm shake. _Cute,_ Louis thought idly. From behind him, Harry was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth in a thin, unimpressed line, left eyebrow quirked in a challenge.

“ _I'_ _m_ the huge fan. Like, _massive._ ” Noah countered, stretching out his left arm to motion grandly. “I used to listen to your games on the radio whenever I was out on field. I had this pathetically tiny, yellow wireless, right? Like, legitimately, with an antenna and everything and—“ He laughed nervously, stilling his tumble of words. “I’m totally embarrassing myself right now. I told you I would.” He chuckled, turning to Harry.

Harry laughed. “It’s cute.” He said with a wink. Louis saw Noah bite down a smile, a hectic blush now on his cheeks. The man was smitten, and Louis felt something ugly twist in his gut at the realization.

“Anyway,” Louis cut in. “I really… I just wanted to come say hi before the shoot.” He shrugged easily, throwing a small smile at Ellis. “I’m really excited to be working with you, _Noah_.” He said his name particularly sweetly, biting his bottom lip on a shy grin and throwing him a tiny wave, before turning around and heading back to make up.

He could feel the heat of a glare burning through the back of his jumper, and he knew it wasn’t Noah. For some reason, the thought made him smile.

 

\---

 

After starting their little pissing contest with the photographer, things had gone downhill. Harry hadn’t spoken to him much for the rest of the day, opting to stay by the camera equipment throughout the shoot, face blank as he silently observed Noah directing Louis.

“Place your right ankle on your left knee, and lean on your hand, please.” Noah instructed, clicking three times consecutively. “Perfect, perfect! Can we try it with the ball under your foot?” Another three clicks. “Awesome, Louis!”

Everything else had passed in a blur. Before he knew it, he heard Noah call, “Last shot!” with a sound click, and then, “Thank you everyone! That’s a wrap!”

Ellis turned to him from across the room, beaming. “That was really great, thanks Louis!” He complimented.

Louis smiled back, standing up and dusting himself off. He walked towards wardrobe and changed out of his borrowed clothes to the sound of the crew cleaning up. Cosmetics were put away, makeup trolleys wheeled out of the space. Slowly the studio dimmed as the bright lights were packed up one by one, casting the room in soft blue. As he was putting his things away, he patted his pockets for his mobile and car keys.

_With Harry_ , he remembered, just as he heard two sets of footsteps somewhere behind him.

“Today was really fun,” Harry breathed through a smile. “Thanks for letting me hang out.” He heard what sounded like Harry adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

“Yeah, anytime! I—“ Noah rushed out, nervously. “You, um, mentioned earlier that you take photos, too?”

“Er, I meant like, of a cat, or an artsy shot of my plate of peas.” Harry joked. “Not nearly as interesting as a flamboyance of flamingos on the coast of Aruba.”

That startled a full bodied laugh out of Noah. “I love that you know they’re called a ‘flamboyance’.”

“Oh, I’m a top notch journalist, didn’t you know?” Harry teased, putting on an overly posh accent. “I have _quite_ the vocabulary.”

Louis had to bite down a smile just as Noah chuckled. _Cheeky little charmer._ The thought snuck up on him as he was pretending to search for something on the floor. He wasn’t eavesdropping, really. Not if they had come towards _him_.

As the laughter died down, Louis heard an inhale.

“Anyway, I—I mean, I thought maybe you would like to come to a free class I teach on the weekends?” Noah’s voice turned up hopefully at the end. “It’s for children—I teach them how to take pictures. It’s only a point-and-shoot sort of thing, but it’s really adorable seeing what catches their attention and… I am babbling.” He said, his sentence coming to a halt.

“No, no!” Harry rushed to assure him. “That sounds—“

Louis stood up abruptly, banging his knee hard on a table, and startling the pair out of their conversation.

“Bloody… Fucking…” He cursed under his breath, rubbing his knee with his palm.

“Are you okay?” Harry called suddenly, seemingly abandoning the cold-shoulder he had been giving Louis earlier.

Louis sat down on a stool as Harry came toward him. He placed his bag on the floor as he knelt beside him, almost at eye level with Louis’ knee, placing his hands on either side and examining the growing welt. Louis blushed at his touch.

“It’s fine, I’m sure.” He stammered. “Just—just clumsy.” Harry ran his thumbs absentmindedly across Louis’ knee. They looked at each other and Harry bit his lip.

“I, uh, I have your phone and… things.” He said, fishing them out of the pocket of his bag.

“Thanks…” Louis trailed off softly, reaching out to take the items as Harry slowly righted himself and stood to face Noah. He was looking suspiciously between the two of them, face set in a slight frown.

Louis breathed harshly into the silence, waiting for Ellis to resume their previous conversation. The conversation that was essentially meant to ask Harry out on a date. A date that included cool cameras and adorable children and-- _Why do I even care?_ Louis chastised himself, halting the train of thought abruptly.

Instead, Noah hitched his camera bag higher on his shoulder, running a hand through his hair and then placing it in his pocket. “It was really nice meeting you both today.” He said, giving Louis a soft smile. Harry cocked his head to the side, puzzled by the hasty end.

“I’ve got to go but, I, um,” He cleared his throat. “I hope to work with you again.” He added sincerely, looking at Harry. “ _Both_ of you.” He amended, shaking both of their hands and heading for the door. Just as he reached it, he hesitated, turning around as if to say something. He seemed to think better of it and offered them both a small wave, exiting the studio quietly.

Silence enveloped them.

Harry shifted next to Louis, pushing up the sleeves of his baggy workout jumper, feet slightly pigeon-toed in his neon trainers.

“Is there anything you need?” He asked quietly.

Louis’ attention snapped to his face, eyes darting from feature to feature, trying to read his reserved tone. When he shook his head no, Harry continued, “I’ll head out now, if it’s alright?” He picked his bag up by the handle, his exhausted eyes blinking owlishly at Louis, waiting for the go-ahead.

“Let me give you a ride.” Louis offered, voice slightly hoarse.

Harry shook his head. “That’s alright. Your place is out of the way—like, actual miles out of the way.”

“I don’t mind.” Louis rushed to say, feeling his cheeks turn pink. _Weird,_ he thought distractedly. He was not one to be embarrassed easily, especially around people he barely knew. He was usually brash and wholly unapologetic about his demeanour, but today—around Harry, especially—he had just been so weird.

He looked up at Harry and saw his forehead marred with lines, an internal struggle clear on his face.

“Oh, um. No, thank you?” Harry turned it into a question.

Louis was taken aback.

“I mean, I’m, um… I’d just really like to rest? By myself.” He explained guiltily, shoving his hands in his pockets, without meeting Louis’ eyes.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, uh, early morning and everything.” Louis nodded his head, brow furrowed with  the effort of concealing the strange disappointment he felt.

“Yeah, so, I’ll… see you tomorrow?” Harry asked.

“Tomorrow.” Louis confirmed with a mumble, eyes glued to his shoes.

And that was that. Harry left Louis by his car with a small wave, walking farther down the street to hail a taxi.

Louis shook himself out of his stupor and got into his car, turning on the ignition. He pulled out of his parking slot and was cruising down the streets on autopilot when he decided to call Liam. Hopefully he had managed to think of a way out of the RJJ dilemma. That would definitely lift Louis’ mood.

The rapid sound of dialing cut through the music on his car speakers, and the space filled with two loud rings. After a beat, a click echoed through the car, followed by Liam’s gentle voice.

“Hello?”

“Liam,” Louis said, foregoing pleasantries and barreling forward with business. “Have you found a solution to The Issue yet?”

He was met with a long and tired sigh.

“Hi, Louis, and no.” Liam admitted apologetically, the sound of paper rustling in the background. He was probably arranging his desk. “I’ve been wracking my brain all day, but honestly—“ An amused chuckle lightened his tone. “Unless you manage to fall in love in the next 12 hours, this RJJ thing is happening.”

Louis turned the corner, and into his driveway. As he put the car in park, Liam continued, his laugh growing, “God knows, if only Niall was gay, I’d have offered him up as tribute.”

Plucking his phone off the dashboard and rooting around his cup holder distractedly, Louis asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean—“ Liam began, amused at the inside joke with himself, apparently. “ _Niall_ —handsome, Irish charmer—best mate, teammate, and secret boyfriend? That’d steal the reins right out of Catherine’s manicured fingers _and_ make that other twat completely useless.” Liam paused for a moment, leaving Louis to digest his words. “Too bad he’s already charmed the knickers off every woman in the UK. He’d have gone along with it, too, to protect you. The man does love a good prank.”

Louis’ brain felt like sludge. There was an idea there, forming small and slow, but he just couldn’t get to it. “Prank?” He repeated, dumbly.

“Yes, can you imagine?” Liam babbled, a slightly manic edge to his voice. “You, in a PR relationship, but with the _wrong_ person. Catherine would be livid, but she’d have to go along with it anyway, just to save face. If only your best mate wasn’t the most famously heterosexual flirt in football, eh? We might’ve been able to pull it off.”

Louis’ head snapped up, a smile threatening to split his face in two. There it was, the answer Louis had been looking for all day. “Liam, I have to go.” He interrupted cheerily.

“What? Okay.” Liam agreed easily. “I’ll see you tonight though, right? At the club thing with Niall? Please don’t make me go alone, Lou, please.” He added rapidly, worried Louis had already dropped the phone without so much as a sign off.

Entering the door and toeing his sneakers off by the entrance, Louis confirmed, “Tonight, yeah. Is that an RSVP situation, by the way? We can bring people, right?”

“I think so.” Liam said. “Wait, since when do _you_ bring people that aren’t me or Niall?”

“Bye, Liam!” Louis sang, pulling the phone away from his ear. He heard the tinny sound of Liam’s hasty “Louis?” before he ended the call, running up to his room for a shower.

As he entered his bedroom, his smile broke out in full-force. He turned on some music, shimmying out of his joggers to the beat, in a good mood for the first time all day. _There’s work to be done,_ he thought mischievously.

 

\---

 

The soft melody of marimba slowly lured Harry out of sleep. He shifted under the cozy, white duvet, his brain whirring into wakefulness as the sound got louder.

_But I didn’t set an alarm…_ He thought to himself, groaning. He silently willed the noise to stop, flopping onto his stomach and burrowing further into his bed. He was met with sudden silence—three full seconds when he thought he might be able to go back to sleep—before the melody and the buzzing started up again, more annoying than before.

He opened one bleary eye, feeling around on his nightstand with his right hand. He pulled the phone onto the bed, the ringing slightly muffled by the thickness of his mattress.  He squinted at his screen, too bright in the dark bedroom, and saw an unknown number flashing on the display.

If this was a telemarketer, he thought to himself, he would be _very_ angry.

It took a couple of clumsy swipes before he successfully accepted the call, the phone placed on speaker and cradled beside him on the pillow.

“Hullo?” He yawned into it.

“Hello, is this Harry Styles?” A slightly familiar high-pitched voice spoke through the line.

“Yes, this is he,” he said on another yawn. “How can I help you?” He spoke breathily, struggling to keep his eyes open. If he didn’t pull himself out of bed, he’d fall asleep on this stupid telemarketer.

_Serves him right,_ Harry thought, nestling his face into the pillow with his eyes shut.

“Harry, it’s Louis. Tomlinson.”

Harry’s eyes snapped open, his body frozen in its lazy position under the blankets. _Nooooo…_ Harry groaned inwardly. It wasn’t Thursday yet, was it? He sighed, picking up the phone and squinting at the time. 7.00 pm, Wednesday.

What could Louis possibly want, just two hours after they had parted ways? Somewhere in the back of his sleep-soggy brain, he also wanted to know how the famous footballer had gotten his mobile number. Mostly though, he just wanted to go back to sleep.

Reluctantly, he put the phone to his ear, still unwilling to sit up in the hopes that this would be a very quick conversation.

“Hi, Mr. Tomlinson,” He croaked, rubbing his eyes. “Did you need something from me?” Distantly he realized he sounded more like a personal assistant than a journalist on assignment. He vowed to change that; to be firmer with his words and actions, and demand answers to his questions! ...Later.

“Call me, Louis, please. I forgot to correct you yesterday morning.” Louis chuckled softly.

Harry’s eyebrow quirked up in confusion. _Someone’s in a good mood_. He thought groggily. Maybe Louis had also had a nap in the last two hours, dispelling his earlier crankiness. Harry decided to humor him.

“Er… Did you need something from me, _Louis_?” He amended.

“No—I mean, yes. Well, sort of—“ Louis stammered. Was stammered the right word? Why was Louis Tomlinson stammering? More and more, Harry was convinced that he was in the middle of a very realistic dream.

Louis cleared his throat, before continuing confidently. “A couple of my friends are hanging out at _Chalet_ tonight, and I wanted to invite you.” Definitely a dream, then.

Sighing, Harry finally decided to sit up.

“Hanging out at _Chalet_ the nightclub?” He asked Louis, confused. “Isn’t tonight the opening?” He only knew this because the launch party had been all his colleagues could talk about for weeks.

 

…

_“I heard it’s going to be really exclusive. A-Listers only.” Brandon from Accounts had whispered over his salad at lunch._

_“It’s impossible to score an invite.” Armand had confirmed. “One of the guys I’m seeing,” he had paused, wolfish grin overtaking his features. “He’s working the party as wait staff, and all their phones are being confiscated.”_

_Zayn had leaned back in his chair, out of Armand’s vision, and had rolled his eyes at Harry._

_Harry had nodded, had ooh-ed and ahh-ed at all the right moments, but could hardly bring himself to care._

_A nightclub was a nightclub was a nightclub, he had thought. There were a million of them in London alone, and after the first big, A-List party, this one would be forgotten, too. What did it matter if you were there on opening night?_

_“But you could bump into Taylor Swift!” Brandon had defended, in disbelief at Harry’s disinterest. Apparently, Harry had said that last part out loud. He would not mention that he wasn’t a fan, for fear of getting slapped in the face for blasphemy._

_“Maybe Jamie can sneak me in.” Armand had suggested, extra emphasis on the ‘Jamie’. Zayn had rolled his eyes once more, before pushing his seat back and declaring he had to get back to work. Harry had scrambled after him quickly, leaving the two other men to their dreaming and scheming._

_…_

 

“—quite boring, actually. But there’s going to be an open bar, and really good booze.” Louis’ voice brought Harry back to the conversation. Harry shook himself physically, clearing his head before answering.

“I…um,” he began. How could he decline without coming off rude? “Thank you, for the invite, but—“ He chewed on his lip nervously. “Honestly, I’m exhausted.” He blew out.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, before Louis continued. “Oh, c’mon, Harry. It’ll be fun!”

“I’m really not—“

“Listen,” Louis interrupted. Harry could hear the mischievous smile in his voice. “First off, the deal was to accompany me to social events, as well, right?”

Harry gulped, remembering the long list of Louis’ demands. _‘Drills, team practice, social events…’_ he had said.

Louis continued confidently, knowing he had Harry cornered. “Let’s sweeten the pot, shall we?” He sang. “Come along tonight, and I _promise_ to answer one question, _any_ question—no matter how intrusive.” Louis’ voice was sweet and sexy, reminiscent of when he had whispered so closely in Harry’s ear yesterday.

Harry balked.

If he was being honest, he had never intended to ask Louis overly personal questions. Maybe a quip or two about a crush to lighten the article a bit, but that was it. Harry wanted to focus on the story of Louis’ career. He wanted to know about Louis growing up—how his sexuality had affected his decisions in his earlier years, how he managed to get this far with that part of his life stored away. He wanted to know how he turned into this strong, sexy, confident athlete, when most people in his situation would be wracked with insecurity.

Still, an advantage like the one Louis was offering could definitely come in handy. Harry could pull it out on a day when the football star was being extra difficult; he could use it to put Louis’ focus back on the interview, after all the drills, and team practices, and photo shoots.

Taking a deep breath, Harry asked, “Can I, um—can I bring someone?” Maybe if he brought Zayn along, he thought, he could serve as a buffer. Zayn could talk to him through the night in case Harry found himself awkwardly cast aside at the party--in case Louis’ ire at him came back without warning.

There was a heavy pause before Louis agreed. “Yeah, sure. See you at the house at 9 sharp.”

Harry confirmed he would be there before ending the call. Falling back onto his pillows with a groan, he stared mournfully at the white duvet, which always looked extra soft and inviting the moment Harry had to get up. With a sigh, he threw the covers to the side and got to his feet.

_Will this day never end?_ He thought exasperatedly, dragging himself to the bathroom to get ready.

 

\---

 

Louis had been contemplating his shoe choices for a solid fifteen minutes when the buzzer rang, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced at his watch, the thick silver band covering his wrist tattoo. 8.55 pm. He chuckled to himself. It seemed Harry Styles was determined to prove he could be _early, thank you very much._

He exited his bedroom, bounding down the stairs barefoot, feet slapping against the tiles softly. After buzzing Harry through the gate without bothering to say anything on the intercom, Louis caught sight of his reflection in the front hall mirror.

He had left his hair as it had been during the photo shoot--piled on top of his head in a soft swoop, the sides combed back neatly. His face was now, thankfully, free of that blasted contour. Makeup often made his face itch, though he wasn’t sure if it was the product, or just the fact that he knew it was there.

He felt comfortable in his favorite gray jeans, which clung to his form and made his legs look long and toned. He had opted for a plain black cotton jumper, the sleeves pushed up to rest halfway on his forearms. From experience he knew that these clubs were packed to the brim, the recycled air stuffy and hot. He didn’t want to put a blazer on only to pass out from heatstroke.

He smirked at his reflection. Not a bad job, if he did say so himself, not that it would do him much good. Tonight was about work, he reminded himself.

Three neat knocks sounded from the other side of the door, and Louis leaned forward to pull it open.

“Hello, Styl—“ Louis stopped abruptly, feeling a sharp jolt in his chest. His mouth was suddenly too wet and too dry all at once. His bare toes were cold in the night air, but he could not care less.

“Hi,” Harry greeted shyly.

Louis gaped at the tall figure stood outside his front door.

Yes, Louis had known Harry was cute; he had noticed it the moment he had smiled, soft and embarrassed at the thought of being tardy. Even then, clad in an oversized jumper with his curls tied haphazardly in a bun, Louis had wanted to squish his cheeks silly, to flirt with him just to watch him stammer.

But _this_ Harry—this startling cross between Mick Jagger and Heath Ledger, standing casually outside his home—was definitely not “cute”. This Harry was _fucking sexy,_ and Louis had not been prepared.

Harry’s loose ringlets, soft and slightly unkempt, were the very definition of sex hair. The curls fell just below his chin, with the left side tucked behind his ear, giving Louis full access to one of those damn dimples. His clear green eyes sparkled, no longer tired from their early mornings. His lips were pink and oh-so pillowy, a lovely contradiction to the strong jawline underneath.

He was clad in solid black jeans that clung to his thighs and made his legs look like they went on forever, his black boots only adding to the illusion of his height. A half-open silk shirt, short sleeved and patterned, hung loosely on his torso.

And then there were the tattoos.

_Where had those been, yesterday morning?!_ Louis demanded of the universe.

The black ink was scattered at random down his left arm, accentuating his lightly muscled biceps and _Was that a naked mermaid?_ Louis thought to himself incredulously.

Dragging his eyes upward, Louis spotted a hint of inked wings resting delicately below Harry’s collarbones. They flanked a thin cross that hung around his neck, his long ringed fingers fiddling with the charm anxiously. Louis would really like to lick—

“I—I didn’t…” Harry began, waking Louis just in time to avoid that inappropriate train of thought. “I hope what I’m wearing is alright? I don’t usually go to these things, so I—I didn’t think my work clothes would get me through the door. I can change, if…” Harry bit his lip and gestured to his shirt, eyes uncertain, clearly misunderstanding Louis’ silence.

Sexy and so _fucking_ sweet. Louis was definitely going to die. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“No, um, what you’re wearing is… fine.” He finished lamely. He turned on his heel quickly, in an effort to avoid looking Harry directly in the eyes. “Please come in.” He declared, pushing the door open further and padding into the hallway.

“Should I remove my shoes?” Harry called from behind him. He turned back, confused by the question, and caught Harry eyeing his bare feet. _Shit._

“Oh, no,” Louis said dismissively, willing his soft flush down. “I just couldn’t decide what to wear. I’ve been staring at my shoes for fifteen minutes. Apparently all I own are sneakers.”

“Will the club mind? I mean, you’re a professional athlete, so sneakers are technically your work shoe, aren’t they?” Harry quipped easily, startling a laugh out of Louis.

“Touché. Let me just grab a pair, and we can get going.” Louis said, making his way up the stairs. Halfway through, he realized something was missing. “Weren’t you going to bring someone, Styles? A _friend_?” He asked tone teasing, hoping Harry would expound. Was it a girl? A boy? A friend, or a “friend”? And were they attractive? More so than Louis? (Not that that was important or anything.)

“Oh, Z will meet us there. Coming from the office, and all.” Harry shrugged, all of Louis’ silent questions going unanswered.

He nodded, hurrying up the stairs. _What the hell kind of a name was “Z”?_

 

\---

 

Turns out, “Z” was short for Zayn Malik and _he_ was unfortunately leagues more attractive than Louis. The phrase ‘tall, dark, and handsome,’ should never be used to describe anyone else. Ever.

Louis was not insecure. _At all._

Malik had been the last member of their little group to appear, walking cooly up to them at the entrance, dressed effortlessly in black from head-to-toe. The only splash of color was on his leather jacket, pink and red roses embroidered at random on the sleeves, and across his back. Truthfully, Louis had mad respect for anyone who could pull off floral—that shit was difficult to look cool in. Trust him, he had tried.

Harry had greeted his friend (“Friend”? Louis still wasn’t sure.) by slinging his arm around his shoulders and introducing him to the group.

“Zayn and I both work at the magazine. He writes the fashion column, which explains the ridiculously expensive piece of leather keeping him “warm” on a summer night.” Harry joked, playfully pinching the dark-haired boy.

Zayn stuck his tongue out at Harry, nose crinkling. “Jealous.” He sang.

Harry rolled his eyes, Niall sticking his hand out to both of them.

“Niall Horan, goalkeeper.” He introduced himself, good-naturedly. “Louis, the gay one,” He said throwing his thumb towards Louis, and receiving a smack upside the head in return. “An’ the lumberjack beside him is Liam, Louis’ manager. _You_ are one good looking chap!” He directed at Zayn, not the least bit embarrassed at his own forwardness. Harry burst into buoyant laughter.

Louis raised his eyebrow at Niall. “Excuse him, he really doesn’t mean to be such a _fucking flirt_ —it’s just his natural state of being.”

Zayn chuckled, taking Niall’s hand and shaking it. “Thanks man. Nice to meet you all.” He smiled brightly at Liam who had gone strangely mute since Zayn had joined the circle. Louis raised a confused brow at his fidgety friend, but didn’t say a word. He was magnanimous like that.

With that, Niall beckoned the group past security and into the club.

Immediately after crossing the threshold, sultry music crooned through the speakers, guiding the patrons through the entrance. _Chalet_ ’s interiors were reminiscent of a 1920s gentlemen’s club. Chandeliers hung sparsely on the ceiling, radiating a soft, golden glow around the spacious room. The floors were covered in luxe Persian rugs, leather Chesterfield sofas nestled in groups around the space. The bar, tucked away in the far corner, was made entirely of dark cherry wood, bartenders in bowties expertly attending to guests. _Posh,_ Louis thought, impressed.

Wasting no time, Niall weaved through the crowd confidently with Zayn and Harry in tow, promising to return with booze. Louis and Liam were instructed to search for the table marked ‘Horan’, serving as their touchpoint for the night, in case someone (read: everyone) had one too many.

After twenty or so minutes, each of the boys found their way back to the table, and proceeded to take full advantage of the open bar. Niall cheerfully greeted every person in the vicinity like a childhood friend, while Zayn and Harry wandered from bar to table to bar again and again. When they went in search of another round of drinks, and had left the two boys with their little leprechaun, Liam turned to Louis clearing his throat. He was flushed pink from the heat and the last three tequila shooters, his eyebrows knitted together slightly.

“So… d’you think they’re… like, together, maybe?” He asked faux-casually, poorly masking his obvious interest by taking a sip from his very manly Guinness. Louis had snorted loudly when he had rattled the order off to Harry nervously. Liam was really more of a piña colada type of guy.

Louis—little  shit that he is—pinched his cheek cooing, “Aww. Does little _Lee-yum_ have a crush?”

Liam slapped his hand away quickly. “Kindly shut _up_ , Louis. They might hear you.” He hissed, his flush deepening to a full-on red.

Louis giggled again, but took pity on his friend. Shrugging, he confessed, “Dunno, really. Been trying to figure it out all night.”

“Right?” Liam exclaimed. “They’re touchy.”

Louis leveled him with a look that said, _‘You can’t be serious.’_

“All three of us sleep in the same bed when you watch our away matches.” Louis countered, taking a sip of his Mai Tai. He preferred cocktails that tasted harmless and then proceeded to leave you three sheets to the wind in half an hour.

“But we don’t look like _that_ , d’ya know what I mean?” Liam blabbered. “I dunno if I could _platonically_ sleep in the same bed with a guy like _that._ ” He punctuated the statement by pointing his drink harshly in their direction, his beer sloshing messily over his fist.

“A guy like what?” Niall jumped in, startling them. “Who’re we talkin’ about, lads?”

“Payno, the little cutie,” Louis said, throwing Liam a cheeky smile. “is arse over tits for Gucci over there.” He jutted his head towards the boys leaning beside the bar.

“Handsome as fuck, those two, yeah?” Niall agreed, all three boys watching Harry and Zayn. “Ya should go fer it, Payno! Flash yer abs or summat—that’ll get him!” He hooted.

“You can’t just assume he likes men right after meeting him, Ni,” Liam tsked.

“I’m not even sure _you_ don’t like men, Horan,” Louis added, making Niall laugh.

“Besides, ‘s a bit rude in front of Harry, innit?” Liam hiccuped.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Niall asked confused.

“Zayn and Harry? If he is gay, they’re probably together, yeah?” Liam clarified, spelling it out for Niall slowly.

Louis said “He’s definitely gay.” at the same time as Niall scoffed, “They’re not together!”

“Maybe not _together_ ,” Louis interjected. “Harry was doin’ quite a bit of flirtin’ with this photographer at the shoot today—Ellis? Anyway, maybe they’re dating around.” Liam nodded solemnly.

“No, they’re not.” Niall repeated easily. “They’re both single.”

“How would _you_ know?” Louis asked, disbelievingly.

“I asked.” Niall shrugged plainly, proceeding to take a long swig of his beer. Louis and Liam stared at him incredulously, as he brought the bottle down. “What? Curious, wasn’t I?”

“Niall, you crazy, little—“ Louis laughed out, just as Liam smacked Niall’s cheek with a wet kiss. Niall wiped it off with the back of his hand chortling.

“Go fer it, ya cunt!” He chuckled, pushing Liam in the direction of the two boys. Liam beamed, fixing his hair and walking a few steps forward. He stopped abruptly, turning to look worriedly at his friends.

“GO!” The boys yelled in unison, giggling as Liam stumbled backwards in surprise, straightening himself quickly and heading for Zayn.

Louis slung an arm over Niall’s shoulder, squeezing him close. “You saved the day, you crazy Irish bastard!” He exclaimed over the music.

“Whaddya mean?” Niall yelled back.

Louis just laughed, patting him on the back twice, before gulping his drink down and heading straight towards the bar—towards Harry—with an extra confident swish to his walk.

_Game on_ , he thought.

  
  


\---

  


Louis was flirt--flirtering--flirting.

Harry was possibly drunk, and Louis was definitely flirting. Or Harry was _definitely_ drunk, and Louis was possibly flirting; one of those. Things tended to get slightly hazy after the ninth shot of tequila.

Had it been nine or thirteen? _Somewhere there,_ Harry thought to himself with a careless shrug.

All he could really remember was that Zayn had pulled him from the table, asking him to recount his awful day away from Louis, Liam, and Niall. They had walked toward the bar at the far end of the room under the guise of ordering more booze.

“And what was that last bit he said, again?” Zayn asked, downing his mojito. He leaned across the bar, signaling the bartender for a refill. Okay, so more booze wasn’t a guise, per se.

Harry swirled his caipirinha in the glass, ducking his head.

_“Do_ try _to refrain from flirting with anymore people.”_ He quoted with a low breath.

He felt his cheeks heat. It was no less embarrassing to hear the cutting reprimand in his own voice. Zayn whistled, as Harry took a small sip of his cocktail.

“Kind’ve a dick, isn’t ‘e?” Zayn observed, giving the barman a nod as he slid his drink into Zayn’s waiting palm. “Seemed pretty cool earlier, though. And invited you along tonight. Weird.” He added, taking a sip.

“He was alright yesterday when I met him,” Harry mused. “Kind’ve a handful--playful prankster type. But not anythin’ like today. I’ve honestly no idea what I did.”

He knew he wasn’t supposed to let Louis’ drastic mood swings affect him--he was on assignment and a temperamental subject was nothing new in journalism. But his lack of confidence in being able to pull this off, coupled with Louis’ volatile attitude were putting him on edge.

Just as he was about to voice this out to Zayn, someone cleared their throat behind them, making both boys turn toward the sound.

“H-hi,” Liam stammered, raising his hand in an awkward wave.

“Hello, Liam,” Harry greeted, as Zayn offered him a warm smile.

Harry had called him Mr. Payne earlier when they’d first met face-to-face, and it had caused Liam’s face to contort.

“Ugh, I sound like me dad.” He had said with a chuckle. “Liam’ll do, mate.”

Harry had beamed at him, refreshed by Liam’s casual demeanor and kind smile. They had traded a few stories before Zayn had arrived, but had not talked much after entering the club.

Now, the music pulsed, heightening the silence between the three boys. Liam seemed to be having trouble remembering why he came over to the bar, his internal struggle plain on his face.

“Did you want a drink?” Zayn supplied gently. Harry recognized it as the voice he used on interns who were constantly jittery and easily spooked.

Liam shook his head no. “I, um,” Another few seconds of silence passed, Harry and Zayn unconsciously leaning forward in an effort to catch his soft mumbles over the music. “W--wuh… Dance?” He directed at Zayn, eyes wide and beseeching.

_Oh!_ Harry thought delightedly. He willed his surprised laughter down. He was so used to Zayn that he forgot how people reacted to him the first couple of times they met him.

_Liam has a crush._ Harry realized, biting down hard on his urge to coo.

Zayn smiled, cool and coy. A couple of drinks always made him a little more open, a little flirtier. It helped that Liam was not hard on the eyes, either.

“Okay,” he agreed easily. “But they’re only playing sexy songs, so we’ll have to make do.” He said, throwing Liam a cheeky wink.

He set his drink down and sauntered towards the dance floor. As he reached it, he spun around and crooked a finger at Liam, beckoning him to follow. Liam threw Harry a nervous smile before gathering himself and heading in that direction.

When Harry lost sight of the two in the sea of dancing bodies, he couldn’t hold the giggles in any longer. He snorted freely into his cocktail at the the memory of Liam’s endearingly stressed face.

“Laughing at my best mate, love?” A voice teased close to his ear. Harry felt his heart leap into his throat and a familiar shiver run down his spine.

Louis moved like a cat, slinking his way in between Harry and the bar. He called out to the bartender for a drink, before turning to face Harry with a smirk on his face.

If Harry were to put his glass down and rest his right hand on the bar, he’d be caging Louis’ small frame and that was not a thought he ought to be having _at all._ Also, hadn’t Louis just asked him a question?

“No,” He denied feebly, five seconds too late.

Louis’ eyes glinted, chuffed at having caught him off-guard once again, and _fuck this_. He was tired of stammering, and mumbling, and blushing. He was going to be respected, damnit!

If Louis was going to be such a smug wanker about everything, Harry could match that, point-for-point. He could play the game, too. Though, admittedly, he had no idea what the rules were.

“Oh no?” Louis asked amused.

“No,” Harry repeated firmly. “I was just thinking, Liam’s quite ballsy. I’ve seen larger men cower when faced with Zayn.” He countered easily. _Words, there we go_ , he thought. _No more bumbling little Harry._

“I hope you weren’t referring to yourself, beanpole.” Louis said, smiling around the rim of his glass.

“Oh, rich, that. Have you looked in a mirror lately, Tiny Tim?” Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes. He had about a second to feel guilty before he was met with Louis’ amused chuckle.

“Well, well,” He said, grinning wolfishly. “Alcohol makes you quite fun, doesn't it?” He leaned backwards, calling over his shoulder, “Barkeep! Six tequila shooters, please. Seems like someone wants to play.”

Harry’s eyes widened as the shot glasses hit the bar top one by one. He turned to Louis, fully committed to declining this insanity, but suddenly faltered.

Louis’ mouth was turned up in a challenging smirk, obviously relishing the hesitation in Harry’s stance. _Cocky little bastard._

Harry quickly schooled his features into what he hoped resembled boredom.

“Is that all?” He drawled.

Those turned out to be the three stupidest words he had ever said to date. ~~Thirteen~~ Fifteen shots later, Harry was convinced that the floor was determined to get out from under his very steady feet.

But, back to the _point._ Louis was possibly flirting.

In an effort to remain upright and subtly mask his tipsiness, Harry leaned heavily against the bar, both elbows resting behind him. He cocked his head to the side, observing the boy in front of him.

Aside from a light flush, Louis looked immaculate--sober and just as smug as he had before they proceeded to drink the bar dry. He was smirking sexily at Harry, blue eyes dancing in the dim light.

“You never answer any ‘f my questions.” Harry slurred.

“You haven’t asked any, Anderson Cooper.” Louis shot back with a smile.

_Huh,_ Harry frowned. That was true.

“Well, I’m going t’ask one _now.”_ He decided, nodding.

Louis chuckled. “Tick tock.”

“How do you _do_ that?” The words seemed to roll off his tongue before he could catch himself. He gestured vaguely at Louis’ everything. “Like, be so, confident, and cool, and _sexy?”_

Louis eyebrow arched, as he leaned forward into Harry’s space.

“Sexy, hm?” He sang teasingly.

“ _Confident_ , I think, was the… Was the point.” Harry swallowed, barreling on. “I mean,” He looked everywhere except those eyes. “Jesus, you’re in professional sports and you _just_ came out, and you’re not even worried ‘r anythin’.”

Louis was so close that Harry’s back dug into the edge of the bar. He felt cornered, but found he didn’t really mind. The view was rather nice. “Not  that you need to be worried, obviously. You’re amazing at your job and also… Also, like, good. At it.” He blustered, inhaling deeply. He _did_ have a point, but their proximity was making his head spin.

Louis was nodding along, obviously enjoying this flustered tangle of words.

“I _just…_ God, if it were me, I’d be on my knees in prayer… somewhere…” Harry finished breathily.

Distantly, Harry heard a new song start, the first heavy beats echoing on the speakers as Louis grinned.

 

_Say it again, say it again._

_Say it again, say it again._

 

Harry tracked his movements as the lithe footballer lifted himself on his toes and tilted his head to the side, his nose almost grazing Harry’s cheek.

“Interesting image,” He whispered, words curling slowly on his tongue.

Sparks lit a trail down Harry’s spine for the second time that night. Was there such a thing as a whispering kink? Because he was certainly developing one, if the last two days were anything to go by.

 

_Oh no, the pennies dropped._

_How did my focus stop?_

_I never let desire lead me blind._

_(I can’t get enough.)_

 

He felt small fingers circle his wrist.

“I love this song.” Louis crooned in his ear. “Dance with me.”

Harry swallowed, dizzy with _LouisLouisLouis_. He nodded dumbly, feeling a sly smile right by his cheek. Louis lowered himself back to standing height and tugged him toward the dance floor.

 

_Oh no, the force is strong._

_You know ya done me wrong._

_I never let a feeling lead my mind._

 

Louis paused and spun to face him, smiling and moving his shoulders to the beat, beckoning Harry closer playfully. Harry took two steps forward, swaying and letting the alcohol take over. He grinned as he saw Louis singing along, both boys inching closer as the music began to swell.

 

_I gotta rise above._

_Don’t need to fret._

_‘Cause if I was to take you home_

_What’s left when the danger’s gone?_

_I never let a feeling lead my mind._

 

The buzz crept through Harry’s bloodstream, his skin tingling the moment Louis slid an arm gently around his neck and pulled him closer. His hand found the small of Louis’ back, and they danced with barely an inch between them.  The position was too intimate for two people who had only met yesterday, people who were acquainted professionally, but Harry felt light and comfortable.

His tipsy state longed for the physical contact; he liked the feeling of Louis swaying into him, laughing into his ear. It had been awhile since he last did this--might’ve still been in uni, even--and he had to admit he missed the flirting and the heady promise of a goodnight kiss.

Even then, this was different. Maybe it was Louis’ sharp tongue, or the fact that Harry admired everything about him--from his skill to his bravery, but the heat between them was like nothing he had felt before.

_You’re sloshed,_ he giggled to himself, shrugging. He decided he’d deal with the consequences in the morning.

He opened his eyes woozily, only to find clear blue glinting back at him, Louis singing along to the song in soft tones.

 

_Would you like to know me better, baby?_

_Think that you can show me better, maybe?_

 

_Yes,_ Harry thought drunkenly. He nodded involuntarily, the corners of Louis’ lips rising in a smirk as he caught Harry’s meaning. Their hips were pressed up against each other, grinding in slow, sultry motions with the beat, and Harry felt the soft press of Louis’ thumb dragging across his bottom lip, happy eyes teasing.

 

_We’ll I sure don’t wanna waste your time,_

_Sure don’t wanna waste your time._

_So let me tell you that I-I-I’d be better off without you, oh._

 

He grazed his nose lightly up Harry’s jaw, and whispered, “Come home with me.”

It was forward. Had this been a random guy at a random club, Harry would have laughed good-naturedly, and disappeared into the crowd after they danced. But Harry couldn’t help the deep pull of arousal he felt at the bottom of his stomach. Louis Tomlinson--gorgeous, confusing, wild Louis _bloody_ Tomlinson wanted to take _him_ home. Good Lord, did he want to say yes.

Instead, he pressed his forehead against Louis temple. “You know I can’t.” He whimpered. Of all the awful luck, _of course_ his career make-or-break would involve having to turn down a proposition from the star of his wank bank.

As he pulled back, he saw Louis frown, forehead creased with disappointment. His bit his lip thoughtfully, fingers fiddling with the bottom of Harry’s shirt.

“Just a ride then?” he offered, mimicking the words he had said earlier in the day. “The least I could do after I dragged you out tonight, yeah? And also because I was a right twat all day.” he laughed ruefully, his head ducked in apology.

Harry laughed, too. Had that only been today? He could scarcely remember it--probably couldn’t put the day’s events in order anymore.

“Yeah, okay.” He agreed. He was met with a soft, thankful smile. They were still loosely wound around each other for a couple of minutes--Harry’s hand on Louis’ hip, Louis’ finger hooked at the bottom of Harry’s shirt, swaying lightly into one another.

“We should go…” Harry mumbled, hesitantly popping the bubble that surrounded them. Louis nodded, slowly pulling himself away from Harry.

“Let’s get the car,” he sighed.

  


\---

  


Sitting quietly in the back seat with Harry tucked into his side, Louis was thankful that he had the foresight to call for a driver that evening. The soft rumble of the engine had lulled Harry into a tipsy doze causing him to burrow gently into Louis, and the spontaneous snuggle had the footballer feeling quite warm inside.

He chanced a glance at the sleeping boy. Harry’s mouth was slightly open, the whites of his teeth peeking out, and tiny puffs of breath escaping from his plush lips. He made an adorably small snoring sound with each inhale, and none of it should have been endearing, but Louis found that it was.

The car rolled to a stop slowly, and he ran a gentle hand down Harry’s arm to wake him.

Harry blinked his eyes open, glassy gaze falling on Louis. He smiled sleepily and straightened up to get out of the car.

“Thanks for the lift,” He chuckled, voice raspy from disuse. “I’ll see you in about two hours.”

“Let’s skip training today, Styles,” Louis said, grinning. “I owe you.”

It was the first time Louis saw a smile that reached Harry’s eyes, and it warmed him to the core. “I had fun tonight,” he admitted shyly. “Thank you.”

Louis’ smile widened, unable to keep the fondness down. “Anytime.”

Harry patted down his pockets, to check that he had everything.

“Goodnight.” He bade. “Oh, and,” He added, smirking mischievously and leaning across the dashboard, into Louis’ space.

For one crazy, heart stopping moment, Louis expected a kiss.

Instead, Harry ran his nose up Louis’ jaw and to his ear, a mirror image of what Louis had done on the dance floor. “I would, if I could.” He said, his deep voice caressing each word gently, sultry and warm.

And then he was gone--sprinting up the steps without looking back, leaving Louis in a right state.

 

Now, Louis sighed at the memory as he hopped out of the car, frown deepening as he strode into the dark house.

Phase one of Louis’ plan had gone off without a hitch, and now all he could do was wait. He felt tiny bubbles of guilt pool at the bottom of his stomach at the thought.

This was wrong--he knew it was--but he had been desperate. If this didn’t work, he’d be hitched to that wretched model for three months at least, and he couldn’t have that.

He thought back to his teenage years--to the hours he spent daydreaming of becoming a pro footballer, reading up on youth camps and practicing early into the morning for even the most minor of matches. He didn’t regret it--never could. Football was his life, and he was getting paid millions to do the only thing that set his soul on fire.

But no one had ever told him about the other stuff that came with it. About the fake girlfriends and the carefully crafted public personas; about how shying away from the public eye wasn’t an option, or how coming clean about his sexuality didn’t mean being free, not really.

Still, he was one of the luckier ones. He had his family and boys behind him--Liam and Niall; his teammates, and his club. His coming out had been supported, celebrated even.

This was a small price to pay, he told himself, squashing the guilt bubbles. He’d feel better in the morning.

  
  



	4. Day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed updates -- I'm not getting as much time to write as I would like. :)
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta @tempolarriefix and my britpicker @neveragainsimon -- your edits, opinions, and words of encouragement are invaluable, and there's no way I could bring this to life without you both. <3
> 
> This story is a work of fiction, and is in no way reflective of the true personalities of the boys or their families/friends.
> 
> Happy reading, and please come say hi on indiaalphawhiskey.tumblr.com! :)

**THURSDAY**

The clock had just struck six when Harry first noticed something strange. Though he hadn’t set his regular alarm he had woken up at five a.m. anyway, his body used to his daily routine. His right temple was throbbing lightly--a souvenir from the previous night’s bad choices.

After tossing in bed for a couple of minutes, he realized sullenly that sleep had already escaped him. He swung his legs off the side of his bed and got up begrudgingly to make himself breakfast.

Puttering around in the tiny kitchen, he pulled drawers open, setting out all the ingredients for blueberry pancakes. They wouldn’t quite remedy the lack of Louis _fucking_ Tomlinson in his bed, but well.

_You win some, you lose some,_ he thought with a pout.

Harry wandered onto his balcony in nothing but his loose pajama bottoms and a threadbare shirt, bare feet cold on the concrete. Leaning on the railing with a cup of tea in hand, he watched the sky pinken.

As he thought back to last night, a mixture of arousal and embarrassment curled in his belly. He could not believe he had whispered that last bit into Louis’ ear. He couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol, not really--that part had been pure attraction and poor decision making--but he honestly didn’t think anyone could blame him. Fifteen shots of tequila and your walking wet dream was a heady mix--not exactly easy to walk away from, but somehow, Harry had found the strength.

He was smiling absentmindedly at the memory of Louis dancing loosely to the music, playful and relaxed in his arms, when he heard a soft click. As he turned his head toward the sound, two more clicks followed, a small light flashing from around the corner of a building. Harry squinted towards it, but whatever it was was gone now.

_Weird._ He thought. It was as if someone had been taking pictures.

There wasn’t really anything to take pictures _of_ , though--the entire street was just squat, grey buildings filled to the brim with tiny flats, laundry hanging off one or two of the little balconies.

Shrugging it off, he walked through the door and into his living room with a yawn. He grabbed his mobile on the way back to the kitchen, surprised to find the notification light blinking this early in the morning. Four messages greeted him--one from Zayn, two from his mum, and one from an unknown number. (He’d been getting a lot of those recently.)

**Zayn**

**Didn’t see u leave. Did u get home ok? (03.05 am)**

Shit. He had forgotten to say goodbye to any of the other boys last night, too intent on being towed away by Louis. Zayn must’ve been worried. He made a mental note to text him later, at a more decent hour. Knowing his friend, he was dead asleep, anyway. And after the night they’d had, it would be nothing short of miraculous if Zayn made it to the office on time.

He exited the thread, clicking on his mum’s name next.

**Mum**

**Hi baby! Give me a ring 2day, pls. (06.01 am)**

**Mummy misses u! (06.01 am)**

Though Harry rolled his eyes, a smile tugged at his lips. It had been almost six years since he had moved out of his mum’s home in Cheshire, and still she insisted on calling _at least_ twice a week. He loved it, though--loved hearing about all the neighbors he grew up with and how their cat was doing; loved listening to her go on and on about a new recipe she had tried and what she planned on cooking for him and Gemma when they came home for a holiday weekend.

He dialed her number, holding the phone in place with his shoulder as he poured flour into a bowl, the ring echoing thrice before she answered.

“Hello?” Came Anne’s voice.

“Morning, mum, how are you?” Harry greeted with a smile, folding the eggs into the pancake mixture.

“Hello, darling!” She chirped happily. “I’m doing well. I haven’t woken you up, have I?”

“No,” he answered around a yawn. “I’ve been up for an hour already. I’m making pancakes.” Harry heard the white noise of his mum’s television in the background, the perky morning show host laughing about something he couldn’t make out.

“Oh, good. You were looking a little thin the last time, on video chat.” She added. Harry chuckled. His mum was eternally convinced her children were never eating enough. He and Gemma could gain thirty pounds each and she would still insist they were too slim.

They proceeded with the small talk--Harry asking about the new charity Anne was helping with at home, Anne checking on Zayn and whether _he’d_ been eating properly. (They had already met twice in the last year, and Harry was quite sure she was drawing up adoption papers behind his back.)

They moved on quickly to Gemma, both unsure as to whether she was dating someone at the moment. There seemed to be a certain boy that was popping up in more than one photo recently, and his mum needed him to wheedle the gossip out of his sister because she was _not_ a nosy parent, thank you very much.

Harry was just about to ask after the cat when Anne interrupted him. “Baby, hold on a second.”

He heard the volume being turned up on the television, though he could only make out every third word.

_“Was--”_

_“Out and about--”_

_“--st night.”_

Harry was mixing the blueberries in when he heard the scuffle on the other line, signalling that Anne had put the phone back to her ear. “Mum?” He asked.

“Harry,” she began, her voice wary. “Do you remember that print shirt you have? The one I hate? Have you thrown it out?”

Harry blinked, confused by his mother’s random memory. “No, I actually just wore it? Why?” The first pancake sizzled in the pan, the smell of the batter wafting from the stove. And also, ouch. That shirt was lovely.

“Darling, why are you on the telly?” she asked, the faux-calm broken by the waver in her voice.

“Hmm?” Harry hummed absentmindedly. What was she talking about?

“You’re on the telly, Harry. Your picture is on the television.” Anne clarified, her tone somewhere between shocked and excited. Harry rolled his eyes as he walked into the living room.

Was his mum alright? Should he be worried about hallucinations or something? he wondered, flicking the television on, and flipping the channel to her favorite morning show. She had watched the same one everyday since he was old enough to walk--he’d recognize the theme music anywhere.

“I’m no--” His heart stopped.

There were two photos on the screen, both a little blurry but still clear enough to recognize the faces. In the pictures, the dim, golden lights of the club seemed to illuminate two bodies on the dance floor, the rest of the sea a faded gray behind them.

In the left one, Louis had his arm looped loosely around Harry’s neck, hips pressed close. They were both smiling at each other tipsily, Louis’ hair a little sweaty and plastered to his brow.

The right one was taken just as Harry had declined Louis’ offer to come home with him. His forehead was resting on the smaller boy’s temple, while the footballer fiddled with the hem of Harry’s shirt. Though he knew the context of it, the photo itself looked painfully sweet--the two boys wrapped around each other, seemingly unaware of everyone else in the room.

The pictures faded on the screen and were replaced by a darker, wider shot, taken from behind. His eyes bulged as he recognized the back of Louis’ sleek SUV parked just outside Harry’s flat, the plate number blurred out electronically. There were no faces in this one, only a pair of black silhouettes--the left one leaning across the dashboard toward the driver giving the impression that the two people were locked in a kiss.

Harry’s eyes quickly caught the marquee at the bottom of the screen.

**Arsenal’s Louis Tomlinson cuddles up to unnamed paramour at A-list party!**

“Mum,” he croaked, throat drier than the Sahara. “I--I’ll have to call you back…”

“Harry? Baby? What is _happening,_ Harry Edward Styles?!” Her voice was tinny and mildly frantic with excitement as he pulled the phone away from his ear, and pressed end call.

He knew he’d get in trouble for dropping the call so abruptly--so _rudely_ \--but that was a problem for another time, Harry decided, as another series of pictures flashed on the screen.

First, he had to find out what the fuck actually _was_ happening.

 

\---

 

**_BABY BECKHAM WITH NEW BEAU IN TOW!_ **

**Louis Tomlinson caught canoodling with Mystery Man at club launch!**

_That’s right! Arsenal striker Louis Tomlinson was absolutely smitten with his sexy sweetheart at the Chalet grand opening! The handsome duo were snapped drinking, dancing, and wrapped all over each other before they left the club at a little past midnight._

_In case you’re wondering (we are, TBH), Tommo’s a total gent--a fan saw the pair share a goodnight kiss (swoon!), before the footballer dropped his Mystery Man off at his doorstep. (We’re not telling you where!)_

_This is the first we’re hearing of Tomlinson’s love life since his coming out earlier this year--his representatives requesting a PR pause throughout the rising star’s season. Rumor has it, an exclusive feature spread is already in the works; his management confirming it’ll be out before the end of the month. No word yet as to which publication snagged the story._

_And who, you ask, is the lucky lad? Sources close to the couple declined to comment (bummer!), but when we do find out, you’ll be the first to know! For now, here are some super sweet photos of them to keep you drooling all day!_

_Shipping them hard already? Let us know with a tweet @sugarscape or drop us a comment in the box below._

_..._

Louis had barely finished reading when he heard five, rapid-fire knocks on his bedroom door. It burst open with a loud bang, Liam and Niall striding towards him swiftly. Louis suddenly regretted the moment he had offered them both a key.

Niall raised his arm in a high-five, “We-hey, Tommo--”

“What the _bleeding_ fuck were you thinking?” Liam interrupted with a screech, hands grasping his curls in frustration.

Louis cringed. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his manager so red. “Er…” he started, wracking his brain for an explanation.

“Catherine is going to kill me-- _me_!” Liam yelled, jabbing hysterically at his own chest. “Oh my God!”

“You told me to do it!” Louis shot back, pointing at him. “You _said_ the only way out of this was if I fell in love in 12 hours!”

“I didn’t mean for you to take me seriously, you absolute twat! I was _joking_!” He moaned, looking like he was ready to cry. He fell onto Louis’ bed helplessly.

Louis squared his shoulders. “ _My way_ , Payno. You promised.”

He knew he sounded like a stubborn toddler, but he couldn’t help it. It’s not like Liam had managed to come up with a better plan. If it’d been left to him, they’d be entertaining River Jordan _bloody_ James right now.

“ _With guidelines_ , Louis!” Liam hissed, sitting up so fast it must’ve made him queasy. “You’ve gone completely rogue!” If he didn’t calm down he would start spitting, Louis thought idly. “How did you even get Harry to agree to this?!”

“Er…” Louis hesitated, scanning the room in an effort to avoid eye contact.

A couple of beats of silence passed.

“You didn’t tell him, did you.” Liam realized, incredulous.

“Not in so many words…” Louis admitted sheepishly, eyes attached to his feet.

Liam blinked at him, bewildered, his mouth hanging open.

“Wait--” Niall interrupted, hand raised in question. “So yer not really dating Harry?” He asked with a pout.

Liam sighed, and fell backwards onto Louis’ pillows again.

“He planned it, Ni,” He said, resigned. “He got papped flirting with Harry on purpose--to get out of this RJJ thing.” There was a short pause. “And it was my idea.” Liam admitted.

Niall’s frown was so deep now that lines creased his forehead. He looked straight at Louis, disappointment radiating from his usually cheerful blue eyes. “And you didn’t tell ‘im? That’s mean, Tommo.”

This was the first time in their entire friendship that Niall had looked anything but happy. Even when he’d had that disastrous knee injury back in Youth league, he had shrugged it off and laughed.

“It’s on the mend!” he had chirped into a pint.

The memory made the little guilt bubbles at the bottom of Louis’ stomach burst into flames, his gut filling with shame. The consequences of his plan suddenly hit him straight in the face.

He _had_ been mean.

He had used Harry--flirted with him and led him on--and had done so in public. He had dragged him into the spotlight unknowingly, exposed him to rude paparazzi and crazy fans, and had turned his world upside down overnight all without his consent.

His heart dropped to his feet. He wondered suddenly if Harry was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of the shitstorm that was about to hit. What would he say to Louis when they inevitably saw each other?

Loud chimes echoed through the room, interrupting his thoughts. His mobile buzzed on his nightstand, the light bright in the blue-toned room. He lifted it up to check the message as Liam fished his own ringing phone out of his back pocket.

**C. Gallagher**

**Urgent meeting with M ppl at 8am. Mandatory. (7.05 am)**

It looked like Louis was about to find out.

 

\---

 

“A million hits in under two hours.” Martin proclaimed in disbelief. He was sitting on the edge of Catherine’s desk, iPad propped up on his lap.

“Four hundred thousand likes on the Facebook article, too.” Richard chimed in from the right side of the room. “The comments are mostly positive. A ‘squee’ is positive, isn’t it?”

No one bothered to answer him, and the room lapsed back into a few minutes of tense silence.

“So,” Catherine started, breaking the ice. “We need to agree on the next logical step.” She directed the statement to Edith Callaway, who was seated across from her on the office couch.

Both women were the perfect picture of professional composure, their designer stilettos gleaming in the fluorescent lighting of the room.

“Quite honestly,” Edith crooned, a serene smile taking over her features. “This is a PR goldmine for the publication. The issue will fly off the shelves as soon as people realize that our little Harry is Louis Tomlinson’s paramour.” She sang the last three words delightedly.

Louis saw Harry’s head snap up in response, though he made no move to speak. He had not said a word since he entered the office, choosing instead to duck quickly behind his editor as she moved around the room.

He was currently seated on her far left, his eyes glazed and tired, famed dimples nowhere in sight.

The thought made guilt curdle at the bottom of Louis’ stomach.

Catherine nodded at Edith and leaned back in her chair. “Personally, I feel we should continue to play up the narrative.” She agreed. “We had just recently decided to reinforce Louis’ wholesome image, and anything countering their dating rumours would make him look promiscuous.”

“Mmhm.” Edith hummed. “It’s the perfect move for M™, as well. It’ll build up the anticipation for Louis’ exclusive and put a bit of romance into the mix. But, of course,” She paused, turning her head toward the boy beside her. “It’s really up to Harry.” Her look was loaded with meaning.

Harry blinked, seeming surprised to be addressed.

He took a moment to collect his thoughts before he spoke.

“Um… won’t it--” He chewed on his bottom lip, eyes downcast. “Won’t it look a bit… sleazy? People are going to think I’m sleeping with him to get insider information.” He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, a soft blush creeping up his neck.

Louis felt his stomach drop to his feet.

_You’re an awful person_ , he thought to himself, his forehead creasing with the stress. He clearly hadn’t thought this through--hadn’t thought about Harry _at all_.

There were consequences, of course there were, but now they were going to reflect on Harry’s professional ethics and affect his career. God, Louis was a selfish dick.

“Well, not necessarily.” Catherine countered smoothly. “We can spin the story--pedal it as more of a ‘meet cute’, if you will.”

The pitch of her voice changed into something sweeter--more romantic.

“We can make it look like you met each other for the first time when you were introduced for the interview. There had been sparks right off the bat--you’re both quite attractive, so no surprise there. Then, you were thrown together for ten days, and naturally, things started developing. It’ll be like the assignment was a just a wonderful stroke of luck.” She explained.

If Louis had been new to any of this, he would have been terrified at how quickly his team had spun a back story. It seemed like manipulation and deception had become second nature to them--they didn’t even flinch at the thought of creating this elaborate web of lies, didn’t even think about the very real lives of the people involved. Just another day at work.

Martin shrugged. “It worked for Giuliana and Bill Rancic.” He agreed.

Harry’s eyes darted from Martin, to Edith, to Liam, and then back to Catherine. He swallowed.

“What--what would I have to do, though?” He asked warily.

Catherine thought for a moment before responding.

“Honestly, nothing much.” She admitted. She started counting off points on her fingers. “You’d have to be seen with him, but since you’re following him around for the story already, it’s not really a change. Maybe a little PDA--something sweet like those pictures in the club, but only in front of our hired paps. And you’d have to agree to keep it a secret. Other than that,” She shrugged. “It’s pretty much business as usual.”

Louis’ eyes had not left Harry, whose posture was completely rigid--his shoulders were stiff, and his knuckles were white with the effort of clutching his knees. His head was down, eyes burning a hole in his shoes. He reminded Louis of a cornered animal.

“And, um…” Harry started, hesitant. “What would, like… what would happen if… If I said no?”

Louis could feel the air in the room tense.

It took a while before Catherine answered.

“Well,” She said, repositioning herself on the chair. “I suppose we could call it a misunderstanding, but the pictures are pretty damning. We still have RJJ’s people on standby, but pairing him with Louis so soon after your little… Rendezvous…” The word came out slightly mocking, and Louis thought he saw Harry flinch.

“The public is definitely going to smell blood in the water; it’s too contrived.” She continued. “We’ll have to put the relationship narrative on hold for three or four months, maybe--a respectable amount of time for Louis not to get a reputation.”

She paused and leaned forward. Louis could tell she was about to throw in her last card; Catherine was the best, and the best never took no for an answer.

“You and Louis wouldn’t be allowed to be seen together anymore, obviously. So, that will mean revoking M’s exclusive, or hiring another writer, unfortunately.”

And there it was.

It had been worded simply--logical and almost obvious--but there was no denying the ultimatum hidden in those words.

To Edith’s credit, she did not rescind her earlier statement about the choice belonging to Harry--she barely even blinked at the veiled threat--but everyone in the room knew it didn’t, really. Harry would have to do what was best for the magazine or risk his boss’ opinion of him, and subsequently, his career.

Louis suddenly wanted to hug him--envelope him in his arms and whisper that he was sorry--but he was sure Harry wouldn’t want to hear it.

This had been Louis’ _brilliant_ plan, after all. And no matter how much Louis wanted to point the finger at his management team, the truth was, he was the one who had forced Harry’s hand the moment he had begun to flirt with him.

For a while, the room was so silent it felt like the air was buzzing. Then, Harry swallowed audibly and lifted his head to give Catherine one, curt nod. “I guess I’ll do it, then.” He said tightly.

It was as if a switch had been flipped. Both Edith and Catherine’s faces brightened automatically, the atmosphere in the room lighter than it had been all day.

“Wonderful.” Catherine cooed. “I’ll have legal draw up a simple non-disclosure, and then we can discuss some logistical things over coffee.”

Every person in the room began to move. Whether it was to grab some papers, make a few phone calls, or prepare their morning tea, it was as if someone had hit fast forward on all of them now that Harry had agreed to the plan.

Liam headed straight for Louis, but faltered when Louis held up his hand, signalling that they would have their discussion later.

Louis quickly made a beeline toward where Harry was sitting, but realized that the writer had already stepped out the door in three swift moves.

Taking a deep breath, Louis willed himself to walk as calmly as possible out of Catherine’s office and into the hallway, where he caught sight of a long leg disappearing around the corner. He hurried after it and barreled right through the bathroom door, cringing as he heard the handle hitting the wall with a loud smack before it swung closed. Not his smoothest entrance.

Harry had looked up from his place by the sink, their eyes meeting in the wide mirror. Though he didn’t say anything, his expression darkened when he recognized who had barged in.

Louis took a tentative step towards him. “Harry, I’m so so--”

Harry held up a hand. “Save it, Louis. I don’t want to hear it.” He said, curtly.

“Please, Harry, I never--”

He was interrupted by Harry’s tired sigh.

“It’s fine, Louis. I should have known, anyway.” He turned to face the footballer, resting his bum on the edge of the sink and crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, really,” He laughed humorlessly. “Why in the world would _you_ be flirting with _me_? God, I made such an arse of myself.”

Louis’ eyes widened at the implication. “That’s _not_ tr--”

“Although, come to think of it,” Harry cut in again, thoughtfully. “Why me, exactly? There were a million guys at Chalet literally salivating over you--you could have had anyone you wanted.”

Louis’ cheeks heated as he stared at his shoes. “I… I couldn’t trust them not to go to the press…” He admitted meekly.

He looked up and saw Harry’s eyes bulge in disbelief.

“So you decided to blackmail me instead, obviously.” Harry chuckled sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t _know_ Catherine was going to do that, I swear!” Louis pleaded, holding up his hands in defense.

Harry seemed to have finally lost his patience. “Well, what did you _think_ they were going to do? Just let me go free?!” He whisper-shouted, right hand gesturing in frustration. “You can’t be that naive, can you?!”

“I’m sorry!” Louis exclaimed. His hand flew to his chest. “I was desperate! You should see this guy they want to tie me to, Harry, he’s absolutely _vile--_ ”

“Oh, and you’re so much better.” Harry bit out.

Louis flinched, but tried his best to continue. “Harry, please--it would have been awful.”

“That’s not the point!” Harry spat back. “You can’t just take someone’s freedom like that! It’s not fair!”

His voice echoed loudly in the empty bathroom, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. The words seemed to take up residence in Louis’ head--‘it’s not fair’ repeating over and over again in his mind. His shoulders slumped.

“I’m so… I’m so sorry, Harry. I know it’s a lot to ask, but,” He sighed. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” He managed weakly.

Harry scoffed at that. “Whatever.”

He strode purposefully past Louis and towards the bathroom door.

“Wait, Harry, please…” Louis begged, turning towards him. He didn’t really know what he was asking Harry to wait for, but he knew they couldn’t end the conversation this way--he wouldn’t let them. If they were going to do this, he couldn’t have Harry hating him.

The tall boy was standing by the door with his fingers already on the handle, poised to pull it open, but he looked at Louis anyway, green eyes patiently waiting.

_God, this kid is so kind_ , Louis thought to himself.

Had the roles been reversed, Louis probably would’ve let out a string of cuss words before promptly slamming the door in his offender’s face.

In that moment, he wanted to give Harry everything--whatever it took to take the defeat out of his eyes, to bring back the sweet persistence he had had on the first day they met.

It was then that a thought popped into Louis’ head, the answer shining like a lightbulb in his mind.

“You could expose me.” He found himself saying.

Harry looked back at him blankly.

“In the article--you could write a tell-all about this whole stunt.” Louis clarified.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Are you joking? Your management would never allow that.”

“They don’t have to know.” Louis countered.

Harry let out a big laugh. “Ha! Louis, they’re preparing an NDA _as we speak_. They would sue me into the grave. Thanks, but no thanks.”

He made to open the door again.

“I could sign a waiver,” Louis offered quickly. The words were coming to him faster than he could think, but he found he wasn’t regretting them. “A waiver, like, countering the non-disclosure. I’m the subject, so I have the power to do that, right?”

Harry paused. Louis could see the idea bouncing around in his head, so he pushed forward, determined to convince him.

“Think about it--you could tease at a secret reveal, pretend you have some juicy quote no one else will ever get. People will believe it because we’re dating. Your boss will think it’s just some ridiculously sappy proclamation of my feelings for you--she’ll _love_ it!”

Harry’s hand fell from the door handle, and he crossed his arms over his chest, one eyebrow quirked in question.

“You’d _really_ do that to your management?” He asked skeptically. “To Liam?”

Louis bit his lip, the cogs turning in his mind. “We won’t tell Liam,” He decided quickly. “He’ll have plausible deniability. And yes, I’ll do that to my wretched management.” He added, rolling his eyes.

The comment was met with a thoughtful silence. Louis looked over at Harry and saw him mulling the idea over, plump, pink lip caught between his teeth and his brow furrowed.

“Your reputation, though,” He said softly to his shoes. And then his eyes snapped to Louis face, earnest and concerned. “People will call you a _liar_. I don’t want to do that.”

And if that didn’t just make Louis’ heart _melt_.

Louis sighed, the reality of what could happen setting in. “Yeah, I s’pose some people will,” he admitted with a shrug. “But, maybe it’ll sort of… expose the industry as well--make people more aware of what happens to celebrities once they’re fully in the spotlight.” He smiled a little. “It might even help a young athlete like… know what he’s getting into before he does, you know?”

That made Harry pause for a moment, his thoughts obviously at war with one another. “But, like, your management would drop you. What about football?” He said, his voice insistent.

At least Louis already had an answer for that one.

“Liam,” he explained easily. “I haven’t told him yet, but I was planning to hire him-- _just_ him--when both our contracts end. Catherine dropping me will just speed up the process.” Louis smiled at Harry. “I’ll be _fine_. My club wouldn’t drop me, either--not over this.”

Another beat of thoughtful silence passed before Harry nodded, satisfied with the answers.

Then, as quickly as it had come down, his guard was up again. He leveled Louis with a wary look. “Why would I even trust you after today?” He asked.

_Right._ Louis frowned, his brow creased with the effort of thinking. He couldn’t exactly blame Harry for being skeptical after the stunt he pulled last night--it was natural for him to want some level of security.

Louis took a deep breath. _In for a penny..._ “I’ll sign the waiver tonight,” He proposed. “That way, I can’t take back my offer. Deal?”

He held out his hand tentatively. Part of him was expecting Harry to simply turn his nose up and leave.

Instead, Harry leaned forward and clasped Louis’ hand in firm shake. “Deal.” He confirmed.

 

\---

 

“Should you really be drinking in the middle of a work day?” Harry asked, a shrewd smile on his lips.

Zayn flipped him the bird as he took a large gulp from his Bloody Mary.

Though he looked as pristine as he always did, Harry knew that today, Zayn’s dark aviators were more for function than fashion. Someone was dreadfully hungover, and Harry did not envy him at all.

“Hair of the dog,” Zayn croaked, by way of explanation. “It helps. I think.” His hand suddenly flew to his temple, rubbing it in a circular motion. “Fucking tequila.” He groaned.

Harry tried to stifle a giggle. It was quite rare to see Zayn looking out of sorts--the handsome journalist was always effortlessly put together, not a hair out of place. This slightly more human version of him was actually rather entertaining.

Zayn nearly caught Harry’s less-than-elegant snort when their server approached the table.

“One pasta primavera?” The waiter asked.

“Here.” Zayn mumbled, pointing to the space in front of him with the briefest of movements. It seemed as though the slightest shift would cause his ferocious headache to attack.

“And one spaghettini bolognese, extra tomatoes, extra tomato sauce?” The server continued, brandishing the large pasta plate he was carrying.

“Over here,” Harry said cheerfully as the man slid the huge serving onto the table.

Zayn scrunched up his nose at Harry’s order. “Tha’s disgusting, mate. I’ve honestly never seen anyone eat tomatoes like you.”

Harry placed a forkful onto his tongue.

Chewing around a mouthful of pasta, he answered “Tomatoes taste wonderful and,” he paused to swallow. “They’re supposed to be really good for your prostate.”

“Please _don’t_ talk about your prostate.” Zayn countered, looking very green.

Harry giggled as Zayn took small bird-like bites from his garlic bread.

“So, do you want to tell me _why_ we’re at Giovanni’s on a day that’s not your birthday?” Zayn continued casually, leveling Harry with a pointed look behind his sunglasses.

Their favorite Italian bistro was a little pricey for a random Thursday lunch, but after the morning Harry had had, he thought he deserved it.

Zayn, being averse to all forms of social media, had not yet heard about this morning’s PR disaster, and Harry thought his mate ought to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. He had sent Zayn a rather ominous message right after his meeting with Tomlinson’s management.

 

**H**

**Meet at G’s for lunch? (10.30 am)**

**Got a bit of news. (10.30 am)**

 

Harry took a big gulp of water.

“Uhm, okay,” He began nervously. “But you can’t tell anyone.” He rushed to add. “I’m serious, Malik. They made me sign an NDA and everything.”

“Who did?” Zayn asked, leaning forward.

Harry glanced around the tiny bistro. Aside from him and Zayn, there was an elderly couple seated at a table on the far side of the room, talking quietly over their paninis. Harry glanced warily at them, and then, deeming the coast clear, proceeded to tell the dark haired boy about the events of the last twelve or so hours.

He began with the moment that Zayn had left the bar to dance with Liam and narrated everything that followed, including his phone call with his mum early this morning.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted Zayn’s small reactions--a frown here, and a shake of the head there--his friend’s posture growing more stiff and defensive at every mention of Louis Tomlinson’s name.

As he approached the part where he had agreed to the stunt, (“Bullied,” Zayn had corrected fiercely. “You mean you were bullied into it.”) he quickly decided to leave out the deal between him and Louis.

Though Harry was now very suspicious of the footballer, he was also not the kind of guy to go back on his word. They had agreed to keep the exposé under wraps, and Harry was going to keep up his end of the bargain. Besides, until the waiver was in his hands, he didn’t trust Louis as far as he could throw him. Best not to give him any plausible reason to back out of their agreement.

He looked up from his half-eaten plate of pasta to find Zayn literally on the edge of his seat. Even behind the dark glasses, Harry could tell that he was glaring harshly.

“What a right twat.” Zayn spat angrily. “Bloody celebrity brat, thinks he can just bully people into _lying_ for him. I ought to shove my boot up his--”

“Okay, calm down.” Harry interrupted, his hand flying up before Zayn could finish his sentence. “I mean, it’s total bollocks, this whole thing, but like,” He chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip. “Edith wasn’t much better, was she?”

Zayn pursed his lip in disgust. “No, she wasn’t. I can’t believe she put you in a spot like that.” He agreed, shaking his head.

Both boys fell silent, absorbing the events of the morning.

“You know, he’s been the star of my wank bank since I was seventeen.” Harry admitted, laughing at the irony. “Be careful what you wish for, eh?”

Zayn frowned, his forehead creased with worry. “Are you alright with this, mate? Seriously? I mean, I’m all about being devoted to your job, but this is insane.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders defeatedly. “I just feel like such a bloody doormat. The only reason Louis picked me was because whoever else was apparently such a diva.” He rolled his eyes, remembering bits and pieces of Louis’ rushed explanations in the bathroom.

_You should see this guy they want to tie me to, Harry, he’s absolutely vile..._

Suddenly, Zayn’s eyes were alight with mischief, a delicate smirk forming on his lips. “H,” He started around a slightly evil smile. “No one said you had to make it easy.”

Harry looked at him confusedly. “What are you talking about?”

That was all the encouragement Zayn needed. He leaned across the table and proceeded to explain in an excited whisper. There might be a way to salvage this yet.

 

\---

 

As it turns out, PR stunts are a lot more complicated than they seem.

Harry realized this when he received a slew of rather dodgy texts as he was crossing the street from the market.

 

**LT**

**Smile as ur texting me pls. (02.05 pm)**

**T** **here’s a pap assigned to follow u. (02.05 pm)**

**Sorry this is so creepy. (02.06 pm)**

 

**HS**

**Ok but I have to warn you--**

**my forced smiles are less I’m-so-in-love and more**

**toothpaste commercial. Sorry in advance. (02.08 pm)**

 

**LT**

**Colgate should be so lucky. :P (02.08 pm)**

 

And, okay, were fake boyfriends supposed to flirt with you over private texts? Louis was probably still feeling guilty, Harry decided. He was mulling over a response when his phone pinged twice more.

 

**LT**

**U free for dinner tonight? (2.09 pm)**

**Catherine wants a pap walk. (02.09 pm)**

 

Harry sighed. He was beginning to wonder if his career in journalism was really worth this mess.

He didn’t have to be a writer, really, he could totally try something else. His nan _had_ always wanted him to become a priest.

He shook himself out of his momentary insanity and tapped a quick reply, only remembering to smile forcedly down at the phone as he pressed send.

 

**HS**

**Sure. Let me know where. (02.14 pm)**

 

\---

 

_Pomodori_ had sounded cute when Louis had first suggested it, but as Harry rounded the street corner, he balked at the sight.

The restaurant was massive and bursting with patrons. Tall cocktail tables littered the entrance, flawlessly dressed men and women surrounding them. They talked animatedly, glasses of wine in hand as they waited for their turn to be seated.

Harry glanced down at himself, suddenly relieved at his choice of outfit. His black sheer shirt and boots had felt over the top in the fluorescent lighting of his bedroom, but seemed to fit in quite nicely with the atmosphere of the place.

He tentatively made his way toward the beautiful seating hostess who was standing behind a narrow table, reading a piece of paper.

“Er…” Harry stammered.

She looked up at him, gaze bored. “Buonasera, welcome to Pomodori,” She drawled lazily, her Italian accent barely noticeable. “How may I help you?”

Harry suddenly froze. He didn’t know what name the reservation was under, or if Louis had even made one, _or_ if a restaurant as full as this one even took reservations.

“Erm…” He fumbled, panicking.

The hostess gave him a pointed stare, and pursed her lips unhappily. She had just opened her mouth to say something—something cutting, Harry could only assume—when an arm slid smoothly around his waist, and a raspy voice interrupted her.

“Buonasera Luciana,” Louis greeted cheerfully. “Come va?” He continued in what was, apparently, impeccable Italian.

Luciana smiled blindingly at Louis, a light flush dusting the apples of her cheeks. “Ciao, _Lu-ee_ ,” She answered shyly. “Sto bene, grazie.”

Louis laughed. “That’s as far as my Italian takes me, love, sorry.” He admitted, shrugging good naturedly.

“Your accent is much better,” She complimented. “How can I help you?” She asked brightly, pointedly ignoring Harry though he was plastered to Louis’ side.

She had even shifted her body to the left, essentially blocking the tall boy from the conversation.

He frowned, disgruntled, and was just about to comment when he felt Louis tug him closer.

“Hi, handsome,” Louis play-whispered, gentle and sweet.

And though Harry knew this was all for show, he couldn’t help the warmth blooming at the bottom of his stomach. Louis was a good actor, he mused idly, but two could play at that game.

Turning his head, he focused on the boy at his side. He schooled his features into something resembling fondness—softening his gaze and quirking his lips.

“Hi, yourself.” He greeted playfully.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Luciana frown, the lines on her forehead creasing deeply.

_Ha_. Harry thought smugly.

“Table for two, please, Luciana.” Louis crooned, his happy eyes never leaving Harry’s face. “It’s under Law comma Jude, as always.”

As the words registered, Harry couldn’t help but burst into honking laughter, right in Louis’ face.

He covered his mouth quickly, remembering himself, but not before he saw Louis frown.

“Why are you laughing?” He asked, pouting.

Harry tried to get a grip on his giggles by smacking his lips together, but it was no use. “Nothing,” he tried, shoulders shaking.

“Harry,” Louis warned, pinching his hip. “What is it?” His eyes were dancing, lips failing to stay turned down.

Harry bit his lip, smiling. “Feelin’ ourselves just a little bit, aren’t we?” He teased.

Louis scoffed, affronted. “Are you saying I’m _not_ as attractive as Jude Law?” He squawked, hand poised on his chest in mock offense.

Harry stepped away from him, making a show of surveying him from head-to-toe.

Louis looked ridiculously delectable, which really wasn’t much of a surprise.

Under a well-tailored blazer, he wore a vintage band shirt that showed off his chest tattoo—‘It Is What It Is’ scrawled prettily across his collar bones. His dark jeans hugged his curves just as they had last night, cuffs folded to reveal slim ankles and small Adidas-clad feet.

But, as always, the footballer’s face stole the show. His hair was artfully tousled, soft brown fringe falling _just right_ around bluer-than-blue eyes that danced happily in the dim light of the restaurant. His jaw was to die for, sharp and dusted with a day’s worth of stubble, his thin lips quirked up in a way that would make anyone want to lean over and kiss the smugness right off his wretchedly handsome face.

Harry found himself wondering how long it would take before the sight of Louis no longer sent him into a stupor, stopped arresting his breathing and making his belly flutter.

Surely by the end of the week he’d build up some sort of immunity, he decided. That was just _science._

Besides, he reminded himself, things were different now. Louis had fooled him—trapped him in this game. It would not do to be constantly disarmed by him. Harry had to get a grip, had to put himself at an advantage.

So, he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

“You’re cute,” Harry admitted, Louis visibly preening at the compliment. “But not Jude Law cute.” Harry finished with a cheeky smile, untangling himself from the footballer’s loose embrace and following Luciana into the restaurant quickly.

He didn’t miss the way Louis deflated slightly, a deep frown forming on his previously bright face.

_Harry Styles – 1; Louis Tomlinson – 1._ He thought, triumphantly.

They weaved their way in between tiny tables, Luciana handing them off to a server halfway through the room. The waiter led them to a nook in the corner, right beside a wide, glass window. The street outside was peppered with bright lampposts—little dots of of light bordering the dark London sky.

“Please have a seat, sirs,” The server said politely, gesturing to the set of plush chairs in front of them. “My name is Paulo, and I’ll be back in just a moment with your orders.”

Louis nodded at him in thanks, and Paulo disappeared into the depths of the crowded restaurant quickly.

Harry looked at Louis confusedly as he slid into the wide seat. “We haven’t ordered, though?” He said.

Louis smiled at him. “I ordered ahead—I didn’t think you’d mind. This is a really great place, one of my favorites.”

Harry blinked.

_I didn’t think you’d mind._

And wasn’t that just the icing on the cake?

Louis had been taking liberties with him since the moment they’d met—the early morning trainings, and treating him like the help at photoshoots. Never giving Harry the time for his questions. Insinuating he was a bloody trollop on the job, and then dragging him out to a party just to _fake_ flirt with him. Letting him make a ridiculous arse of himself and then tricking him into agreeing to this web of lies.

All the while just _assuming_ that sweet, darling Harry wouldn’t mind.

It was so small—not even really an issue, considering Harry had never been to _Pomodori_ , and would have probably asked Louis what he thought he should order anyway—but something in Harry just snapped.

Irritation simmered in his veins, and he suddenly heard Zayn’s voice echo in his ears.

_No one said you had to make it easy…_

He was pulled from his silent strop by the delicious smell of food wafting towards their table. A gigantic tray had been set beside them covered by beautifully plated dishes.

“For your appetizer,” the waiter announced, brandishing a plate. “Bruschetta with chopped tomatoes, drizzled in olive oil.”

He moved on to present goulash soup, a Margherita pizza, and finally, “Fettuccine tossed in sun-dried tomatoes and chili.”

It was as Paulo was setting it down in front of Harry that he made a snap decision.

He quickly schooled his features into a grave frown, forehead creasing with the ‘stress’ of a dilemma.

Louis, who had been observing him as the food was being placed on the table, noticed his troubled expression immediately.

“Harry?” He asked gently. “Something wrong?”

Harry glanced around the room, pretending to survey how private the area was. Most of the tables surrounding them were within earshot, so Harry could speak at a normal volume and still have it carry. Perfect.

“Erm…” He started, worriedly. “I’m… well…” He took a deep breath, pretending to steel himself. “I’m sort of… allergic.”

_Nice._ Harry thought, careful to bite down on the smug smile teasing at his lips. Louis could take his delicious self-ordered food and shove it up his—

“Allergic to…?” Louis asked.

“To…” _Shit._

Whatever it was had to render everything at the table inedible. He ran through a list of possibilities in his head. _Pepper? No. Carbs? Fake. Gluten? He didn’t even know what gluten was, really._

“To…matoes.” He heard himself say, the word falling straight off his tongue without permission. He scrambled to fill in the bewildered silence settling between them.

“I would—I’d eat them but, they make me…” Harry wracked his brain for a side effect—something _good;_ something in between mild rashes and death. “…er… retch.” He decided. “Like, bad—all over the place. Projectile. _All night._ ” He finished with a grand hand gesture.

Louis seemed to turn a touch green at the imagery.

Harry eyed the couple at the table beside them—their conversation had come to a complete standstill, ears almost perked like Great Danes on a hunt.

Louis cleared his throat. “Er…” He started. “We’ll just…” He turned to Paulo. “Do you have anything without… tomatoes?” He asked helplessly.

The waiter offered him an apologetic smile. “No, sir…”

“Not anything?” Louis asked, voice going a little high-pitched. “Not even like, a roast chicken? A caesar salad?”

“Sir,” Paulo whispered, clearly trying to save Louis from embarrassment. “ _Pomodori_ literally means ‘tomatoes’ in Italian.” He revealed with a sad grimace.

And that, right there, was just God taking Harry’s side, honestly.

“Oh,” Louis said, looking forlornly at the food in front of them.

“It’s alright,” Harry interrupted, his voice extra sweet. “I can just grab something to eat after. Maybe at home.” He smiled benevolently.

“No!” Louis rushed out. “Harry, no. This day has been shit enough already, I can’t let you…” His eyes went from the beautifully laid out food to Harry and back to the food. “We’ll just… take this to go. And—and. Find another place.” He decided, resigned.

Harry threw Louis a blinding smile, dimples and all. “Yeah?”

He watched as Louis’ gaze quickly softened, a fond quirk on the corner of his lips. “Yeah, of course. Definitely.” He assured, glancing one last time at the spread in front of them.

Harry only felt a little guilty.

 

\---

 

The food was neatly packed in takeaway boxes, Louis holding the paper bag as they exited the restaurant quietly.

They had been briefed by Liam through e-mail earlier that day. Five or six paps had been assigned to follow them at various distances and take pictures as they entered and exited the restaurant.

Somehow—maybe due to the ambiance of the evening or his scheming—Harry had forgotten.

Blinding flashes assaulted them as the door to the bistro swung closed, the sudden influx of loud clicks and shouts startling Harry. He stood frozen, blinking rapidly to rid his eyes of the spots that had formed. Then he felt a small hand slide into his, their fingers entwining, and a spark of electricity shot up his arm.

A warm puff of breath tickled his ear.

“Just follow me,” Louis whispered kindly. “Head down, I’ll guide you.” He tugged Harry forward, shouldering through the small crowd of camera men. They quickened their steps, practically brisk walking, until they rounded the corner and were met with silence.

Louis exhaled in relief, but Harry still glanced around, expecting another flash of light, another abrasive question.

“They won’t follow us,” Louis said, noticing the furtive looks Harry threw over his shoulder. “Catherine told them to stay by the restaurant. Trailing us home would ruin the narrative.” He explained with a shrug.

_The Narrative,_ Harry remembered, nodding solemnly. The Lie’s official codename seemed almost boring—something so _normal_ in the world of PR—and the sudden realization that it _was_ normal made Harry’s stomach churn.

There were actually people hired to spin other people into someone completely different—like a twisted version of Cinderella, personality and all. The thought was creepy and Harry shivered, ridding himself of the goosebumps and focusing on the present.

He recalled The Narrative’s details, listed succinctly in Liam’s e-mail.

Harry and Louis were supposed to look as any couple would on a second or third date—happy and still slightly shy, just enjoying each other’s company. A hand hold was _imperative_ , but a kiss was not, considering they were supposedly ‘just starting out’. The paps would not follow them home because they should _definitely not_ be photographed entering either one’s house together this early in the story—they wanted the relationship to exude long-term romance, not lust.

Harry ran through all the information they had been given, checking off the requirements one by one, letting Louis lead him down the quiet street.

“Where did you want to eat?” Louis’ gentle voice pulled Harry back to the present.

As he looked down the long stretch of road, he remembered a small burger place nearby. He had taken his sister there when she had come to visit, and hadn’t eaten there since, even if the food had been wonderful.

“There’s this restaurant a couple of streets down? I’ve only been there once but it was amazing. They’ve got, like, massive burgers and seasoned chips and—“ Harry was interrupted by the loud growl of Louis stomach.

The footballer stared at himself, and then looked at Harry.

“Well, I’m obviously game.” He said, smiling sheepishly and pointing at his stomach. “Lead the way, Styles.”

Harry grinned brightly for the second time that night. “Yeah?”

Louis nodded. “Hell yeah. I’ll even let you ask me those questions you’ve been pestering me about.” He joked, bumping Harry lightly on the shoulder.

Harry bit his lip, still smiling. This night was looking up. He jerked his head towards the end of the road. “C’mon,” he said, tugging Louis along.

And if Harry didn’t let go of Louis’ hand all the way to the restaurant, he told himself it was only for the benefit of those who might recognize them. They had to keep up The Narrative, after all.

 

\---

 

“One mushroom, bacon, Swiss burger for Jude!” The cashier called loudly.

Harry snorted as Louis sauntered up to retrieve his order, obviously trying his very best to live up to the code name. He leaned against the counter, bum popped outward, and threw the girl a winning smile. The exaggerated act was hilarious, but also, Harry realized, it kind of worked on Louis.

“A bleu cheese burger for Sienna!” The cashier squawked, pulling him from his thoughts.

At that, Louis turned around and smirked, an eyebrow quirked in amusement. “Really?” He asked as the younger boy walked towards him.

“What?” Harry asked, fluttering his eyelashes innocently. “Alfie was a great movie. Besides,” he said, winking cheekily. “I’ve got the body for it.”

Louis burst into loud laughter as he got hit with a hip check.

They both grabbed their greasy plates and had already turned around when Louis suddenly turned back to talk to the bored girl behind the cash register again.

“You’re _sure_ that one has no tomatoes, right? Not even a whiff of ketchup?” He asked, pointing at ‘Sienna’s’ order.

A warm feeling spread through Harry, and he couldn’t fight the grin he was trying so hard to keep down. That was the third time tonight Louis had asked the poor cashier that, vehemently stressing that tomatoes were _off limits_ , could not be _anywhere near_ his date’s order. It was painfully sweet, but the girl honestly looked like she was about to clock him.

“Positive.” She affirmed through gritted teeth.

“Perfect!” Louis exclaimed brightly, totally missing the obvious annoyance in her voice. “Doing a great job… Sarah!” He said, reading her nametag. “Absolutely excellent.”

They walked back to the corner of the dark room and slid into their seats—a  tall wooden table and two barstools placed side-by-side.

Initially, they had picked this spot because it was the most discreet table in the space—covered in shadows, far away from the bar, cashier, and bathroom. They quickly realized, though, that the hole-in-the-wall burger joint was bereft of patrons, the total opposite of the restaurant they had just come from.

Where _Pomodori_ easily had twenty or so waiters, _Russell's Burgers and Booze_ had a whopping total of two staff members—Sulky Sarah the cashier (who wouldn’t be able to tell Louis from Rafael Nadal) and a cheery line chef the boys had not had the pleasure of meeting. They had only heard him whistling happily, the sound of sizzling meat filling his (or her, really) kitchen.

Even the bar was devoid of a bartender, Sarah informing them that the choices for drinks were beer or soda, and they could take it or leave it.

But the stools were rather comfortable, all the food was already on the table, and honestly, Harry and Louis couldn’t be arsed to move an inch (it was already nine p.m. and they had yet to have any dinner) so they stayed in their dark little nook, and bit into their juicy tomato-less burgers and greasy chips.

“Oh. My. God.” Louis exhaled around his first bite. “This is… I think I’m having an orgasm.” He said, closing his eyes in ecstasy and swallowing.

Harry snorted. “If you’re not _sure_ you’re having one, then you’re _definitely_ not having one.”

Louis pinched his hip and stuck out his tongue. “You’re cocky for someone who could die of tomato-poisoning.” He countered, eyes crinkling happily.

“Whatever.” Harry shot back lamely, scrunching his nose.

As they took a couple more bites Louis let out a series of obscene moans, Harry rolling his eyes as each one got ridiculously louder.

“No one sounds like that in bed, Louis.” He said, throwing a paper napkin straight at his nose.

Louis’ eyes widened in mock shock. “Harry Christopher—“

“It’s Edward.”

“—Elliot Styles!” Louis exclaimed theatrically. “You are _obviously_ in need of a half decent shag if you think _no one_ sounds like that in bed.”

He scoffed, a grin tugging at his cheeks. “That’s rich! Closeted-Football-Star calling the kettle black?”

“First of all, it’s _ex-_ closeted. Get your facts checked, you lazy journo.” Louis shot back, smiling and pointing straight at Harry’s nose. Harry made himself go cross-eyed pretending to keep his eyes on Louis’ finger, causing Louis to giggle at the silliness before he continued. “Second, and more importantly, I’ve had _plenty_ of wonderful shags, thank you _so_ much.”

Harry raised his eyebrow in a challenge. “Plenty?”

“A handful.” Louis negotiated.

When he saw Harry’s eyebrow raise higher, he rolled his eyes. “Alright, two. Two wonderful—“ Higher, still. “—semi-decent shags in my first six _working_ months out of the closet. Happy, you bloody detective?” He asked, pinching the curly haired boy lightly.

“Quite.” Harry confirmed, preening. “Although, truthfully, I’ve only had about… three more than you,” His tone went up at the number, indicating that he wasn’t sure. “And I haven’t been in the closet since, maybe, ever.” He admitted, shrugging.

He really had no idea why he had said that—Louis hadn’t even asked—but it felt natural and easy to admit to him in the empty restaurant. Harry hadn’t been in a relationship since uni. He was too focused on his career to go out and meet people his age, and didn’t want to date at work because that was too messy.

Somehow, though, in his devotion to his art, he had careened headlong into a _fake_ relationship that would definitely put a stop to whatever was left of his sex life. The irony made him giggle.

“Something to share with the class?” Louis asked, raising his eyebrow.

Harry shook his head, still chuckling at the thought. “Tell me about your two decent shags, then.”

Louis’ eyes widened. “On the record?” He questioned, jokingly.

Harry shook his head no. “For fake boyfriend purposes only,” He explained. “I think this is the kind of talk you have on a second-ish, third-ish date, yeah? Tell me what I’m _not_ up against.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

And it shouldn’t have been this easy, Harry realized. They shouldn’t have been talking about their sexual history like two people who have known each other forever. He should have been more tentative, more angry after everything that happened today.

But he was tired, and it felt good to laugh with Louis. He could worry about his boundaries tomorrow—they had managed to cross every single professional boundary today, anyway.

Louis blew out a breath, steeling himself, fingers splayed out on his knees. “I had slept with women before,” He started, looking away. “Not a lot, but a fair few—mostly from my days in Youth league. It had always felt a little bland to me, sort of… templated.” He decided on the word with a shrug. “Find a girl giving you the eye, chat her up, take her back to your room, have a bit of fun, repeat.”

Harry nodded along, encouraging him to continue. He remembered going through the same thing when he was younger—trying to figure out why this _thing_ that all the other boys were excited about didn’t really entice him; why it felt more like something he _ought_ to be doing instead of something he wanted to be doing.

“I finally figured it out at nineteen,” Louis said, taking a sip of his beer. “We were at summer training—somewhere in Spain, I think. The owner of the stadium we were training at—he had a son that he brought along to all the meetings, and trainings, and games. I think he was trying to buy a football club and was testing out his management skills on us.

“Anyway, his son, Joaquin,” Louis ducked his head, one side of his lip quirked in a smile at the memory. “He was flirting with me, like, _shamelessly_ the whole trip—asking if he could show me around, if there were any restaurants or sights I wanted to go see.” He laughed.

“Sounds like a twat.” Harry scoffed, taking a sip of his water. And, okay, that was unlike him.

“A little, yeah,” Louis agreed.

If he had noticed Harry’s surprisingly bitter tone, he didn’t mention it.

“It took me a while to cotton on to what he was doing, though,” Louis continued. “I thought he was just being a good host. Anyway, he invited me out to a bar on one of my last nights there—I had refused every other time because of early morning training, but the team finally had a couple of free days before we headed back, so I agreed.”

Harry could see where this was going and didn’t notice he was bracing himself for it, like a driver in a head-on collision.

“Turns out, caipirinhas are my poison.” Louis chuckled, rolling his eyes at his nineteen-year-old self. “He kissed me and I didn’t stop him. It was the first time it felt like I wanted someone the way I was supposed to want girls, and I was too high on the feeling to slow it down.” Louis was still looking away from Harry, a hectic flush now high on his cheeks. “We fell into bed and I never saw him again.” He said, with a shrug.

“Not that I wanted to,” Louis amended. “I had the league to think about and my sexual crisis to get over, and I wasn’t dumb enough to think a summer shag would turn into anything more. Put quite a damper on my love for Grease, though, honestly.” He finished with a rueful smile.

Harry ducked his head and nodded, trying to think of something to say.

He knew what that was like--that awkward first time. His own story had been even more embarrassing, but it was with a sweet boy he had liked, and that was all you could really ask for, right?

Louis cleared his throat nervously, making Harry realize he had been silent for too long. He looked up to find Louis looking away and fidgeting a little, obviously vulnerable. Harry understood--it was the discomfort you felt sharing a personal story with an acquaintance for the first time; a tiny moment that felt monumental because it decided how deep a relationship could (and would) end up being.

Harry placed a light hand on Louis’ forearm, tapping out a light beat with his fingers to get Louis’ attention. When he felt those blue-eyes rest on him, he looked up and grinned cheekily. “One caipirinha and you’re a proper slag? Kind’ve a lightweight, aren’t you?”

Louis laughed loudly, clearly relieved, and nudged Harry playfully with his shoulder. “Please _don’t_ print that—you’ll ruin my street cred.” He said, throwing up a gang sign.

Harry scrunched his nose up and shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

“What, this?” His hand formed another sign, this time jutting his chin out and flattening his mouth into a straight line, his expression exaggeratedly tough. “Everyone does this, homie.”

Harry laughed, rolling his eyes. “I don’t think you should be calling your fake boyfriend ‘homie’.”

“How ‘bout ‘bruv’?” Louis asked, grinning and hopping off the tall barstool.

Harry shook his head, still smiling, and gathered their loose trash before he slid off the seat. He deposited the greasy napkins into the trash bin, Louis following closely behind him.

“Curly? Pun’kin?” Louis rattled off, putting an overly saccharine tone to his voice. Harry ignored him, choosing instead to survey the empty street before stepping out into the chilly evening. He felt the warmth of Louis’ body as he lifted himself onto his toes and pressed his front against Harry’s back, the barest suggestion of physical contact. “Baby?” He whispered, playfully.

Harry closed his eyes and willed the shiver down.

Louis was just teasing. He did these things because he knew they threw Harry off-course; made his skin buzz, and his heart race. He would get used to this, he told himself—used to the beauty, and the flirting, and the proximity. He _had_ to. There was no way he could protect himself if he didn’t.

He steeled himself and turned his head to face Louis. They were almost nose-to-nose, the footballer still standing on his tiptoes. Harry looked down at Louis’ smiling mouth, and then up at his blue eyes. He leaned forward slowly, shrinking their gap inch by inch.

And then, with barely a centimeter between them, he whispered, “ _Harry.”_ before pushing the door behind him open and walking into the night, throwing a stunned Louis his cheekiest wink.


	5. Day 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta @tempolarriefix and my britpicker @neveragainsimon -- all of this is thanks to you two. <3
> 
> This is a work of fiction and is in no way reflective of the true characters of the boys or their families/friends.
> 
> Happy reading, and please tell me what you think! :)

**FRIDAY**

The sun was just rising when Louis pulled into the stadium the next morning. He slid the car neatly between the white markers on the pavement and turned off the engine.

He glanced to his left, watching as Harry rummaged through his messenger bag sleepily, his slightly sweaty hair pulled back in a bun. As he pulled out his mobile phone triumphantly, he threw Louis a small smile.

“Thought I lost it,” he explained.

Louis wasn’t paying attention, distracted by the small droplet of sweat that had slid down the side of Harry’s face and was currently resting at the top of his jaw. Without thinking, he lifted his hand and swiped it away, his thumb quickly caressing the supple skin of Harry’s neck, a fissure of electricity igniting where they touched.

If Harry was surprised by the easy touch, he didn’t show it.

_No point in making it weird now,_ Louis decided, keeping his thumb where it was.

“I told you to shower at my house.” He said, voice soft and raspy in the early morning. “Now you’re going to have to spend the morning uncomfortable.”

Harry rolled his eyes but was smiling. “It’s just a little sweat, Louis. I’m fine. Besides,” he turned to his right, Louis feeling the muscle of his neck twitching under his thumb. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”

“I could’ve lent you something.” Louis insisted, just as he had earlier this morning when Harry had given him the same excuse after drills.

Harry quirked his eyebrow teasingly, leveling Louis with a knowing look.

 

…

_“I could lend you something,” Louis had offered, pulling two bottles of water from the refrigerator and setting them down on the marble counter top. Harry, who had been seated across from him on a bar stool, had shook his head no._

_“I can’t walk around in your clothes.” He had said, muffling his large yawn with the back of his hand._

_Louis had frowned._

_“Why not?” He had asked petulantly. “We’re_ ‘dating’, _Harry.” He had put emphasis on the word dating, as if Harry could have forgotten about the arrangement in a day’s time._

_“We’re not_ that kind _of dating, Louis.” Harry had pointed out, smiling around the mouth of the bottle. After taking a long pull, he had swiped a loose droplet off of his bottom lip before he continued. “We’re not supposed to look like we’re sleeping together, remember? ‘Long-term romance, not lust.’” He had quoted Liam’s e-mail playfully._

_“I don’t understand that at all,” Louis had mused aloud absentmindedly, his hip leaning lightly on the counter. “I’d definitely be sleeping with you by our second or third date.”_

_He had frozen. The words had fallen out of his mouth without his permission, dancing right off his tongue. Blinking, he had hastily wracked his brain for a way to play that off before Harry—_

_“Would you, now?”_

_Shit._

_“Uh, I…” Louis had cleared his throat, desperate to make any kind of sound—a prelude to an explanation, maybe._

_When no words had come to him, he had glared down at the marble accusingly, as if it was the table’s fault he had said something. His cheeks, he had been dead certain, were aflame._

_He had heard, more than saw, Harry slipping off the stool and moving slowly toward him. Two large hands had appeared on the counter, bracketing his, Harry’s warmth caging his body from behind._

_Louis had continued to stare downward, trying his best to ease his stance._

_It was like this with them now, he had realized._

_Things between them had shifted in the last forty-eight hours, Harry no longer overly cautious about pushing back with Louis. Their dynamic was more equal and he had just begun to wonder when exactly it had changed, when soft lips had grazed his ear ever so slightly. He had held his breath and bit his lip, trying to suppress a shiver._

_And then Harry had crooned, “And who says I’d be sleeping with_ you _?” before he had smirked and left Louis to catch his breath, still burning a hole in the table with his eyes._

…

 

Now, Louis shook off the memory, stamping down quickly on the curl of arousal it brought.

_Do not even._ He reprimanded himself mentally, focusing instead on the Harry that was actually in front of him.

“I don’t want to shatter your illusions, but your jeans might be a tiny bit short for me.” Harry shot, pinching the air with his thumb and forefinger.

Louis scrunched up his nose and stuck out his tongue. “Twat.”

The younger boy giggled as they both shuffled out of the car, closing the doors behind them. Louis locked the car with a small click, before rounding the back and falling into step with Harry on the other side.

“Seriously, though,” Louis continued, picking up the earlier conversation. “Bring an overnight bag and some clothes to the house. It’ll just be easier that way.”

There was a long beat of silence where Louis thought Harry hadn’t heard him. Then, with a small nod, he agreed. “Alright.”

They fell into companionable silence, walking the length of the parking lot towards the entrance of the stadium. As they reached the gate, Harry paused, looking upward at the dome that loomed over them. Louis looked up, too.

For the first time in four years, he felt intimidated by this place that he had come to think of as a second home—as if the building itself could tell that he was lying about his and Harry’s relationship.

Harry cleared his throat tentatively. “So, um. What does the team know?” He gestured between the two of them. “About this?”

Louis felt guilt seep into his stomach—a harsh reminder that he had dragged Harry into this mess that they were about to navigate together.

“Well,” he started, fiddling anxiously with his fringe. “Catherine wanted to keep this a secret, so, my guess is they know exactly what the public knows.” He hitched his duffle bag higher on his shoulder. “Niall—he was with me when the tabloids came out.” He explained. “He knows it’s… he knows that it’s a stunt.”

Louis avoided Harry’s eyes, opting instead to stare at his shoes. Not for the first time, he wished that he had been braver about all of this; that he had put his foot down, been bullheaded and stubborn about being honest with the public.

He suddenly envisioned a happy Niall standing proudly at a podium surrounded by bright lights and microphones. Louis knew that had it been _his_ coming out, the goalkeeper would’ve probably declared, “’M gay an’ s’none of yer business! Help yerselves to the open bar!”

And that would be that, because his best mate was brave as fuck.

But it wasn’t Niall.

It was Louis, and Louis had caved once more to the whims of management, too afraid to lose what he loved—to lose football.

A soft hand settled on his bicep, the warmth pulling him out of his gloomy thoughts. He looked up to find Harry’s kind, green eyes searching his face, asking without words if he was okay.

It was terribly sweet, but, Louis decided, there was no point in sharing his thoughts.

Harry probably thought him a coward, anyway—a man who was only capable of being honest if the stakes were manageable.

_And he would be right,_ Louis realized sadly.

He plastered a small smile on his face, something that said ‘I’m fine, I swear.’ before he jerked his head toward the open gate.

“C’mon.”

He could throw his pity party later.

 

\---

 

As a big football fan, watching Arsenal’s team practice should have been incredibly thrilling for Harry. He was the type of person who could not be spoken to when he watched matches on the telly, as he was usually too emotionally invested in the outcome of the game to care what the person next to him was saying.

He researched statistics, analyzed plays, and discussed fakes and dives with the enthusiasm only a true football fan could have. So, when Louis told Harry he’d be spending every morning sitting in the stands at Emirates Stadium essentially observing how historic matches were created, Harry did not expect to be nodding off in the stands.

Two sharp whistles jerked him from his light doze, his head spinning slightly from the sudden wake up call. He rubbed his bleary eyes and squinted at the field. The red clad dots—usually moving back and forth in perfect formation—were now clustered haphazardly across the green.

Apparently practice was over.

He shut his laptop, which had been teetering precariously on his knees, and slipped it into his messenger bag. That was the trouble with this ‘drills and drinks’ routine—his sleeping schedule had become completely erratic, and Harry could no longer be expected to function with less than two naps a day, which was really cutting in on his writing time.

Not that Louis had given him much to work with, he thought grumpily, though he had to admit he had enjoyed last night’s easy chat over burgers. If only he could find a way to sneak some interviewing in when the footballer was feeling particularly gabby—then they’d be getting somewhere.

He shouldered his bag and trudged down the stairs to wait for Louis by the benches, as he’d done everyday since Tuesday. As he made his way to the water cooler, his mobile chimed, signaling that he had received an e-mail.

He pulled up the app, eyeing the unfamiliar address.

 

_From: CSGallagher@fivestar-pr_ . _co.uk_

_To: LWTomlinson@arsenalfc.com; HEStyles@gngpublishing.co.uk_

_Cc: LJPayne@fivestar-pr.co.uk_

_Subject: E-mail Sync_

 

_L and H,_

_Syncing your office e-mails for ease of scheduling._

_\- C_

 

_PS. Walk one good. Points of improvement for Friendlies TBD._

 

Harry rolled his eyes. It was probably the most succinct e-mail he had ever received, what with Catherine not even bothering to spell out their names. It was also quite disturbing that she didn’t think to _ask_ for permission to sync their e-mails, happy to assume that anything in both Harry’s and Louis’ inboxes were ready to be shared with each other.

To be fair, they _were_ their professional addresses, so there shouldn’t have been any personal e-mails in there to begin with, but that was besides the point.

He felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Louis—getting thrown around like collateral for his PR team’s gain. And, having no say in whether something personal could even stay private was not an easy thing to deal with. It was a miracle they’d let him come out at all—though Harry had a feeling that had more to do with Liam than anyone else in that awful office.

Another _ping!_ signaled a new notification, but Harry was too busy glaring down at the offending message to check what it said. He was honestly considering sending a withering note back, when boisterous laughter interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to find four men walking towards him.

Louis was nudging Niall teasingly, his sandy brown fringe falling into his eyes, while the goalkeeper pulled his best mate into a one-armed hug. He whispered something to Louis, whose eyes crinkled as he exclaimed, “Piss off!” before proceeding to shove a laughing Niall away from him.

Two burlier men Harry recognized as Sam Renner and Rowan Thomas (both defenders) followed them. Sam fell into step beside Niall, while Rowan playfully jumped on Louis’ back, catching him by surprise and causing them both to tip a little to the left.

As the foursome got closer, Rowan aborted the half piggyback, choosing instead to walk on Louis’ right.

Harry suddenly felt nervousness pool at the bottom of his stomach. The sight of four Premiere league players all together and heading straight towards him was making him sweat—which was ridiculous considering he had already met Niall and obviously knew Louis, _and_ had been watching every practice for four days now. But for some reason, this felt different.

He was a fan, okay? Like a legitimate _fan—_ like a legitimate fan who was fangirling in a super fan kind of way and—

“Hey,” Louis greeted with a soft smile, unknowingly interrupting Harry’s internal freak out.

“Heeey,” The other three men sang teasingly, barely able to contain their (not even joking) giggles.

“H-hi,” Harry stammered, feeling the blush creep up his neck. And wow, did this take him back to college—all awkward lankiness and big, clumsy feet, crushing on the footie captain.

Louis looked at him confusedly, a bit of worry passing over his face.

Harry couldn’t blame him—he probably looked like he was having a mild stroke.

The confusion seemed to pass quickly enough, though, Louis placing a gentle hand on the small of his back, the warmth searing through Harry’s jumper--and yeah, that was _so_ not helping with the nervousness.

“Harry, this is Sam and Rowan.” He said with a smile, gesturing backwards to his teammates.

As if Harry even needed to be told.

Rowan was beaming at him, one hand stretched out in greeting. “Hello, lad!” He boomed cheerfully.

“Oi, he’s not your son,” Sam countered, knocking Rowan’s hand away.

He stepped forward, pulling Harry away from Louis’ light touch and into a rather forceful hug, thumping him twice on the back. “’Ello, mate!” He chirped. “Always nice to meet the guy shaggin’ Tommo’s brains out—he gets so prissy when he’s not pullin’ on the reg.” He stage-whispered, earning him a thwack right on the back of his head from Louis.

“Watch it, Renner.” Louis warned, trying to fight down a smile as Niall and Rowan burst into laughter.

“S’true though, innit?” Sam countered over his shoulder, his arm still around Harry. “He’s always so grumpy when something’s _not_ up his arse in the mornin’.” That startled a honking laugh out of Harry, Sam waggling his eyebrows suggestively and dancing just out of Louis’ reach as the blue-eyed boy made a grab for his shirt collar.

“We’re seein’ ya tonight, aren’t we, Harry?” Niall asked, falling into step beside him.

“ _Niall._ ” Louis called from somewhere to the left, still trying to get a hold on Sam. “What part of _‘I will ask him’_ did you not understand?”

“Well, ya didn’t ask him fast enough, ya cunt.” Niall shot over his shoulder.

“What’s tonight?” Harry asked, smiling as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“Louis invited us to his house for dinner—“ Rowan chimed in.

“You mean _you_ invited _yourselves_ —“

“—WAGs and all.” Rowan finished with a smile. His brow furrowed suddenly. “Wait, is WAGs incorrect now? Do we have to change it to—“

“Ya hafta come, Harry.” Niall cut in. “S’ the first time Liam’s not goin’ as Louis’ date.” A thwack on the head for Niall, too.

“Only because he’s coming as _yours_.” Louis shot back. He stuck his tongue out at Niall before marching determinedly over to Sam who was still taunting him with silly faces.

“Sounds fun.” Harry said with a smile. “But I—“

“Great!” Rowan said, putting his large hand on Harry’s shoulder. And really, how he was a defender and Niall was a goalie, Harry would never know. Rowan was built like a brick wall—tall and broad—with the demeanor of a happy Labrador. “See you tonight then!” He said, pivoting and heading to the right, throwing all the other boys a wave.

“Oi! You’re my ride, wanker!” Sam called out, wrestling out of Louis’ grip and jogging after him. “See you lads tonight!” He called.

“I’ll head off, too,” Niall said as he made a beeline for a dark green sports car that was right in the middle of the car park. He clicked the remote over his shoulder, and the car chirped to life. He made it to the door in three swift steps, slid into the car and pulled out of his spot all before Harry could blink.

Niall drove up right next to Harry and put the window down. “Be there, Styles!” He called out. “Tommo needs some loooovin’!” he hollered, cackling as the car sped into the distance.

Louis and Harry both stared after him in bewildered silence.

“Wow,” Harry croaked. “Niall is _thoroughly_ enjoying this.”

“He and I are going to have _words._ ” Louis assured with his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest.

Harry chuckled. They both turned in the direction of Louis’ car, walking together in a beat of comfortable silence.

Then, Louis cleared his throat.

“Sorry about my friends,” He started, tentatively glancing at Harry’s bowed head. “They, uh—they’re just really excited about me, like, dating? They know it’s been hard for me, and they’re just _weirdly invested_ in my romantic life.” He rolled his eyes on a laugh, trying to play it off.

Harry looked up and threw Louis a warm smile. “Don’t apologize. They’re really funny and… I dunno,” He shrugged, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets. “Like, I guess I didn’t expect them to be so supportive of you being gay? That’s probably a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?”

“No,” Louis said, shaking his head. “Believe me, I completely understand.”

They were both standing beside Louis’ car, neither of them making a move to get in. Just like last night, the air was charged with vulnerability. Harry could feel Louis getting ready to share something important, and he held his breath, afraid to interrupt his train of thought.

Louis blew out a quick breath, and looked away, into the distance.

 “When I was going through my sexual crisis,” He smiled at the melodramatic wording. “I’d been on the team maybe… nine months? Wonderful timing, honestly, way to go me.” He laughed, raising his fist in a sarcastic cheer.

Harry nodded slowly, encouragingly, although Louis wasn’t looking at him.

“God, I was _so_ scared.” He paused, shoving his hands inside his pockets. “I mean, it’s _professional fucking football,_ right? My _dream_ —and I was going to fuck it up because my dick wasn’t cooperating.”

Harry giggled at that. Trust Louis Tomlinson to make an overwhelmingly emotional story funny.

“I was so scared,” Louis repeated. This time, he was smiling at Harry’s reaction.

Then his features schooled themselves into a concentrated frown.

“I started avoiding the team. I didn’t joke with the boys, or horse around with them like I used to. I didn’t shower in the locker rooms. I averted my eyes every time one of them so much as took his shirt off because I didn’t want to feel anything, give anything away and get kicked out.

“And then, I guess, they started to notice that I was being weird,” Louis bit his lip, still staring at nothing just to the left of Harry’s head. “It was definitely affecting my playing, and I was so quiet, which obviously set off some red flags. I was a wreck for _weeks_.”

Harry felt his heart plunge into his stomach in empathy. He could imagine the internal tug-of-war nineteen year old Louis was dealing with—nobody to talk to, no one to share the weight of the burden with; the impossibility of the choice between your heart and your career.

“Then finally, after one practice, George took me into the back room.” Louis let out a deep sigh. “I thought I was going to get fired, I swear.” He pinched the air in front of his face, chuckling. “I was _this close_ to losing my shit—just bawling on the floor and begging for them not to kick me out. _Not_ my finest moment.

“Anyway, George—he slings an arm around me and goes,” Louis giggled before putting on a theatrically deep voice, eerily similar to his captain’s famous baritone. “He goes, ‘Tommo, let’s just cut to the chase, yeah? No one on the team cares _what team_ you play for, alright?’” He started chopping the air with an open palm, mimicking George’s hand gestures. “’We’re family, and you love who you love—that’s up to you. Now, start playing like the pro you are because your stats are abysmal.’” He finished, beaming at Harry.

Harry eyes widened and he chuckled, pleasantly surprised by the happy ending. “And everyone on the team was just on board?”

Louis nodded, his eyes crinkling with how wide he was smiling at the memory. “I don’t know if they all discussed it before then—I never asked Niall, ‘cause I didn’t really want to know. But yeah.” He bit his lip and shrugged, still grinning. “Maybe two days after that talk, Sam cracked a gay joke at practice.”

Harry nodded and smiled, completely unsurprised.

“Everyone kind of held their breath, but I couldn’t help it—I nearly toppled over laughing, partly because of the relief, partly because it was actually _really_ funny.” Louis recalled, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Everyone else laughed, too, and then me liking men was just another piece of information, like my jersey number.”

Harry’s brow furrowed gently.

“What about, like, when you have new teammates?” He asked curiously.

In the last few years, Arsenal’s team had shuffled around quite a bit. Louis’ original lineup was now scattered all over different football clubs--only him, Rowan, Sam, Niall, and George remaining--and it wouldn’t make sense to keep _formally coming out_ every time someone new came along.

“After I knew that George and the others would have my back,” Louis started. “I just stopped worrying about it. I got comfortable joking around and didn’t censor myself.” He elaborated, cocking his hip to the side absentmindedly. “I guess that confidence made it easier for the new lads to just accept me as I was, because I wasn’t as vulnerable anymore.” He finished with an easy shrug.

They both stood there in their jumpers and joggers, beaming at each other and Harry was suddenly floored by his need to wrap Louis up in a hug. Louis had come out to his teammates almost four years ago, but the relief on his face as he recounted the experience was fresh, and Harry was just so happy for him, still.

He didn’t lunge forward like he wanted to, though. He held his ground and just continued grinning. “That’s a pretty great coming out.”

“It was, yeah.” Louis agreed, leaning forward and pulling the car door open for Harry. “Is it weird that I’m excited for you to write about it?” He asked, smiling. “Like, someone is going to read that and know that stories like that really happen.” He explained. Harry slid into the car while Louis perched his chin on top of the open door, smiling down at him. “I mean, yeah, it’s rare—there are so many more awful stories—but you know, at least there’s _one_.”

Harry couldn’t bite down on his smile.

“It’s not weird at all. I totally get you.” was all he could say, overwhelmed by Louis’ sweet sentiment, by the thought of their article making a bit of a difference.

Louis smiled back and winked, before closing the door on Harry’s side of the car. He slipped into the driver’s side, a happy silence stretching over them as they pulled out of the parking lot.

Harry stared out the window, a few thoughts bouncing around in his head, when he felt a soft hand on his knee briefly. He turned to Louis, smiling, the footballer looking at the road.

“You’ll, uh,” he began, glancing at the side mirror, before looking straight ahead again. “Will you come, then? To dinner tonight? …Please?”

Harry felt warmth unfurl at the bottom of his belly at the sweet hesitancy in his tone.

Bratty, confident Louis, who—Harry was learning—was hardly ever in the habit of _asking_ for things, was politely requesting Harry to come to dinner tonight. _And_ he had said please.

Harry looked out the window and bit down on a smile.

“We’ll see.” He answered teasingly, the flippancy of his response betrayed by the easy way he ran his knuckles softly against Louis’ thigh.

And if he noticed the tenderness in the touch, Louis didn’t mention it.

 

\---

 

Though the events of this morning had left him in good spirits, Louis knew things tended to go downhill as soon as Catherine Gallagher was involved.

They were currently sat in her office, meeting for the second time that week. And though Louis should be used to her pulling the wool over his eyes, changing tactics so fast it gave him whiplash, she had once again managed to catch him by surprise.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, calm but confused. “Weren’t you telling us to keep a low profile just yesterday?”

“Yes,” Louis hissed from the other side of the room, unable to control his grave annoyance. “What happened to ‘long-term romance’, ‘slow burn’, and all that other bullshit you were throwing at us not twenty-four hours ago?”

Catherine was seated at her desk, calmly flipping through an iPad, poised to perfection as usual. “ _Yesterday,_ ” she began, her tone already frosty. “We were testing the waters, trying to see how people would react to the two of you—making sure the positive press from Wednesday wasn’t just a fluke.”

Liam, who was standing behind Catherine’s throne-like office chair, rolled his eyes so hard Louis thought they’d fall into his head. It almost made Louis smile, the vehement hatred his manager had for all the preposterous peacocking the team made Louis do. It was getting so that Liam couldn’t even _pretend_ to be on board with Catherine’s schemes anymore.

_God bless him,_ Louis thought, swallowing a grin.

“Good news, boys!” Catherine chirped, interrupting that train of thought. Her pitch was slightly manic. “People _love_ you together! Obviously.” She said, dropping the act as quickly as it had started. She gestured to her a right, a signal for Martin to start speaking.

“’Tomlinson was seen escorting his dapper date into the restaurant, their table situated in a romantic nook by the corner.’” He read off his tablet. “’After a quiet dinner, the two exited hand-in-hand. _‘They were so adorable,’_ the seating hostess gushed. _‘Clearly smitten with one another! Such a good-looking pair!’_ ”

At that, Louis and Harry’s eyes met, brows quirked high in surprise. They snorted simultaneously at the memory of Luciana’s blatant jealousy, the complete opposite of her online blurb. What some people would say for their fifteen minutes, really.

Catherine cleared her throat, pulling both their attention back to her.

“Now that we’re _sure_ of the pairing, we need keep you two relevant.” She said, clipped and businesslike.

“What does _that_ mean?” Louis scoffed, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Simple,” She laced her fingers together and placed them on top of her desk. She leveled them both with a serious look. “We need to kick your romance up a notch. Yesterday was slow burn, today we need _whirlwind._ ”

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis saw Harry pale. “Sorry?” He asked.

“Three letters,” Catherine clarified, eyes gleaming. “P-D-A. We need sweet, we need sexy, and we need steamy. We need heart eyes, pet names, cuddling—we need in- _fucking_ -fatuated by the Football Friendlies.” The words hit Louis like a freight train.

“What?!” Louis sputtered, just as Liam screeched, “Catherine! That’s _tomorrow_.”

“It _is_ , Liam, thank you.” She sneered meanly.

Her tone made Louis’ blood boil.

“It’s _also_ going to be heavily covered by the press, and we need to take advantage of that.” She continued. “Louis and Harry have to be very physical and very showy if they’re going to garner the attention we want.” She stood from her desk, leaning on her outstretched arms like a villain in a cartoon. “And since they’re going to be around the entire Arsenal team, they have to make sure it’s _believable_.”

“This is _insane._ ” Louis couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “I’ve never even _been_ in a relationship, Catherine. Maybe we’re one of those couples that don’t like PDA!” He continued, gesturing aggressively between himself and Harry.

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Louis, please don’t give me that shit. You’re both attractive, you’re both young— _surely_ it won’t be too hard to pretend you can’t keep your hands off each other, hm?” She said pointedly, her brow quirked in challenge.

Her words made Louis flush, and he prayed that Harry thought it was solely from aggravation.

The thing was, Louis and Harry were both tactile people. That much was obvious. He saw it in the way Harry was with Zayn—loose and confident, never thinking twice about his movements. The realization had caused Louis to be rather free with his touches as well.

Emboldened by alcohol, Louis had flirted shamelessly with Harry at Chalet, and Harry didn’t seem to mind, taking the intimate touches and dirty dancing in stride. They had also held hands most of last night, as mandated by Catherine’s pap walk.

But there had been other things, too; Louis teasing Harry by making a habit of leaning in too close—Harry cottoning onto the game and reciprocating, just to prove he wasn’t so easily flustered. There had been casual swipes of fingers, reassuring hands on shoulders, even a moment when Louis helped Harry stretch after he’d tackled the drills the wrong way.

Those had been natural, though—tiny, platonic gestures that weren’t labeled or second-guessed; just two people trying to find a comfortable rhythm in an odd situation.

Now, Catherine wanted to _amplify_ that—speed up the dance and go straight to the good stuff. Every move would be dissected, blown up and scrutinized to convey a _heightened_ attraction, play up the chemistry, and _that_ made Louis nervous because…

Well, because Louis really _was_ attracted to Harry— _disastrously_ so—and had been trying to stamp down on it since he’d had the absolute misfortune of laying eyes on those blasted dimples and ridiculous (read: _sexy as fuck_ ) tattoos.

He could think of a million good reasons not to entertain those thoughts—they were working together, they were always in close quarters, Harry was writing an entire _bloody_ exposé on him; the list was endless.

But so was the list of things he found he liked about the journalist.

Harry was earnest and brilliant, painfully sweet, and prettier than any grown man had the right to be. And now, Louis’ team giving him the green light—telling him to _lean into_ the temptation, stare and drool and maybe touch and holy shit, this would not end well.

He chanced a glance at Harry who was staring pensively out the gigantic office window, giving no emotion away.

_He’s not interested,_ Louis reminded himself, his stomach dropping slightly. _Not after what you did._

He turned to Catherine, the frustration flooding back. “That’s not the point.” He said through gritted teeth.

“Okay, what about a compromise?” Liam cut in swiftly, holding his hands up like a referee. He spoke quickly, trying to get his two cents in before either Catherine or Louis bit off his head. “We’ll do something small around the boys tonight—maybe the pet name thing—just to see how it flies, see if it comes out natural or suspicious. If it works well, we can add the extra PDA layer at Friendlies, just so that it’s not this sudden, sappy shift.”

It was actually a much better tactic—more rational than the original anyway--but Louis still glared at him on principle.

Liam extended his hands for a shake. “Deal?” He asked hopefully.

“Deal.” Catherine agreed, shaking one firmly.

As everyone turned to Louis, tense desperation heavy in the air, Louis turned to Harry, blue eyes seeking green. “You okay with that?” He asked tiredly.

For a moment, Styles seemed surprised to be asked. He bit his bottom lip and looked up, as if he was weighing his options in his head. Then, he nodded slowly.

Louis turned to Liam and gave him the barest of handshakes. “Deal.” He muttered tiredly.

Yes, tonight was definitely going to be interesting.

 

\---

 

Louis frowned down at the piece of paper in his hand. He had been clutching it so tightly that the bottom corners were fraying. “This is horrendous.” He announced sourly.

The list of pet names looked ridiculously clinical printed in e-mail format across the white sheet, but each option seemed more sickly sweet than the last.

“I feel like a dirty old man catcalling some nubile young thing.” Louis gagged at the image.

He was not expecting the easy chuckle that met him from across the room. He looked up to find Harry leaning back on the sofa, smiling easily as he tossed a crumpled paper ball up in the air. “Well, you _are_ kind of middle aged, and I _do_ practice yoga.” He commented off-handedly.

Louis’ brain stopped short, mind wandering to an image of Harry in downward-facing dog, cute, little bum in the ai—

“Heeey,” He pouted, once his mind found it’s way _out_ of the gutter. “Mid-twenties is _not_ middle aged!” Harry let out a happy giggle that only served to disgruntle Louis even further. “I’m glad to see you’re approaching this with so much humour, _muffin._ ” Louis shot, reading the name off the list triumphantly.

Harry sighed, a smirk still playing on the corner of his lips. “Lighten up, grandpa. You’re going to give yourself a stroke.”

The footballer raised his eyebrow skeptically. “You, Harry Edmund—“

“Edward.”

“—Styles, are telling _me_ to lighten up? What is with the drastic attitude shift?” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Are you drunk?”

The younger boy rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “No—although I really should be, after this morning.” He joked. “It just seems like we’re in this for the long haul, so there’s no use pouting over every little thing, yeah?” He rested his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting mischievously in the late afternoon light. “Might as well have fun with it.”

And that—what exactly was he suggesting?

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Louis asked, his interest sufficiently peaked.

Harry smiled and bit his lip. “Not _suggesting,_ per se. More like… challenging?” He nodded his head toward Louis, his grin widening. “Bet you twenty quid you can’t use all the names on the list by the end of tonight’s dinner.”

And, see, Louis was an adult—an adult that lived in a gigantic estate with a personal football pitch and a daily cleaning service. He didn’t _need_ twenty quid.

Which is why he countered with “Thirty. Bonus points if you can squeeze in names that aren’t on the list.” He added with a grin.

Harry laughed, sticking out his hand for a shake. “You’re on.”

 

\---

 

It started off simple enough.

“Harry, _love_ , this is Ollie.” Louis said, throwing his thumb over his shoulder to point at the man behind him. He gave Harry a cheeky wink and mouthed ‘one’.

Harry responded with an unimpressed smirk, before offering his hand to Ollie. “Hi, great to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Ollie responded, shaking Harry’s hand firmly. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He gestured behind Harry to the counter.

It was littered with the freshly washed vegetables Harry had brought over, after he found out that Louis’ plans for dinner consisted solely of pizza, crisps, and beer.

“No, it’s cool,” He smiled, looking at the chaos behind him and thoughtfully scanning the area. “I just need to find the knife.” He turned back and looked serenely at his ‘boyfriend’. “Louis, _hon_ , could you show me where it is? I can’t find anything in your kitchen, _darling_.”

He flashed a number two with his fingers by his hip, where Ollie couldn’t see.

_Take that._ He thought, a smug grin on his lips.

Louis raised an eyebrow and then strode past him, pulling the drawer open. He took out a large knife and slipped Harry the handle. “There you go, _sweetheart_.” He practically cooed.

Playful green eyes met mischievous blue, an unspoken challenge charging the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ollie back out of the kitchen awkwardly, obviously trying his best to be as inconspicuous as possible.

Once they were alone a beat of silence passed between them, their eye contact never wavering.

“We may have scared Oliver.” Louis joked, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Backing down, are you?” Harry teased, eyebrow quirked.

“Not a chance.” Louis countered, winking.

Within twenty minutes the game had escalated sufficiently, Louis and Harry throwing pet names back and forth with frightening ease.

They had finished all the most common ones with their guests none the wiser, and were now crossing into food territory, Harry taking it as a personal challenge to call Louis every baked good he could possibly remember.

“Thanks for getting the salad, _cupcake._ ” He smiled, slipping his arm around Louis’ waist and tugging him closer lightly.

“You’re welcome, _sugar plum._ ” Louis replied easily.

Harry felt Louis rest his nose on his temple, in an effort to keep his giggles at bay. He understood—the absurd pet names were making it very difficult to keep a straight face.

“Harry,” Niall cut in, slightly shrill. “D’ya want some of this margherita, mate?”

Of all their guests, Niall and Liam seemed to be the only ones who had noticed anything strange. When Louis had asked for ‘A piece of pepperoni, please, _cuddle bug._ ’, Harry had caught Niall mouthing ‘what the fuck’ to Liam, who had waved him off, promising to explain later.

Harry smiled at Niall, about to lift his plate to receive the proffered pizza when Louis shook his head frantically.

“Tomatoes!” He yelled urgently, causing a few people at the table to startle, most of the WAGs clutching their proverbial pearls in alarm.

_Oh right._

Niall blinked at Louis, surprised at his seemingly random outburst, and Harry had to will himself not to burst into laughter.

“I’m allergic to tomatoes.” He explained to the bewildered table.

Louis pointed to a smaller pizza box on his left. “White veggie pizza, no tomato sauce, extra pineapples.” He recited. He pointed to the bowl of greens in the center. “Caesar salad, ” and then gestured to the two small containers next to the crisps. “Cheese and spinach dip, instead of salsa.” He finished, grinning proudly, obviously pleased by his Harry-friendly menu.

Not for the first time, Harry felt his veins fizz at Louis’ words. His vigilance with Harry’s tomato ‘allergy’ was just the cutest thing, and Harry was hit with the overwhelming need to lean over and pepper the footballer’s adorable face with kisses and—

_Oh. That was new._

Harry felt his chest seize at the realization, and he quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

He tried his best to school his features into some semblance of calm before the whole table noticed his mild panic attack. Slowly, he turned his attention back to Louis, forcing his lips into a playful smirk as his heart began to slow from its earlier frenzy.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest, _dumpling_ ?” He said in the most saccharine tone he could muster. “Just the absolute best _gumdrop, fluffer nutter pancake_ ever.” And just as Louis grinned back proudly at his compliment, Harry turned his body towards him and flashed the number twenty-five under the table, wiggling his fingers teasingly.

Louis narrowed his eyes, jaw dropping in a mock gasp.

That’s right--Harry played to _win_.

 

\---

 

It was only when Liam called out “Buses leave at four a.m. tomorrow,” that the team began to pack up their belongings and head for the door.

Louis stood from the table and turned to his right, offering his hand to an extremely bleary-eyed Harry who seemed to be having more difficulty than usual staying upright.

“Hey,” Louis started, intertwining their fingers. “You alright?”

Harry nodded, trying to stifle his massive yawn. “’M fine.” He mumbled, offering a small smile back.

“You’re coming along on the buses, Harry, yeah?” Rowan called over his shoulder, causing Harry to shift his attention.

He nodded again, Louis tugging him closer to his side and placing a guiding hand on the small of his back--just to steady his drowsy swaying, Louis told himself. _That’s all._

“ _Why_ are we taking a bus instead of a flight again?” Sam asked grumpily.

“Because it’s the _Friendlies_ , knob head.” Theo answered, hitting Sam upside the head. “We’re playing for _free._ ”

“Oi, then why did we even _have_ dinner then? It’s already eleven—we’ll never be up in time.” Sam whined, throwing his head back dramatically.

“Oh, shush!” Ellie reprimanded, pinching her husband’s arm. “He doesn’t mean that, Louis. We had a great time, _thank you_ for inviting us.” She tacked on, throwing Sam a withering glare.

A round of thanks echoed through the ladies of the group as they started to take their coats out of the closet.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam agreed begrudgingly, slipping his jacket on. “See you lads tomorrow at the arse crack of dawn.” He added with a roll of his eyes as he pulled the large front door open.

As if on cue, Harry let out another yawn, Louis chuckling at how sleepy-soft he looked. It was an hour to midnight and Harry Styles looked like he could plop down right there on the rug and sleep like the dead.

“Stay here, okay, sleepy head?” He laughed softly in Harry’s ear. “I’ll walk the boys out.”

The journalist opened his mouth, presumably to argue, but he blinked ever so slowly and seemed to forget what he meant to say. Louis laughed, gently leaning him against the bannister and making sure he was steady enough to stand on his own, before unwinding their fingers.

“I’ll be back,” He said, and once Harry managed a lethargic nod in response, he turned to jog quickly through the front door to catch up with his teammates.

At the sound of crunching gravel, Niall turned around, slinging an arm around Louis’ neck the moment he fell into step with the rest of the group.

“Great spread as usual, Lou.” He said, punctuating the sentence with a blinding smile.

“I bet Harry’s a pretty great spread, as well.” Ellie added wickedly, wiggling her eyebrows.

The dirty comment mixed with Sam’s appalled expression sent Louis into body-wracking laughter.

“Ew, woman!” Sam screeched, gagging. “Your husband is _right here._ Have some shame!”

Ellie giggled, sticking her tongue out at him playfully. “I’m _just_ saying—your boyfriend is sexy, L. I don’t know how you keep your hands off him.”

Sam’s face contorted in disgust as he pretended to dry heave on the ground, causing the group to break into a round of rowdy laughter.

As the chuckles died down, Rowan looked thoughtfully at Louis. “You _do_ know you don’t have to keep it so PG around us, yeah?” He offered earnestly.

Louis cocked his head to the side, peering curiously at his teammate.

“What do you mean?” He asked, shoving both hands into the pocket of his jacket. He hadn’t bothered to put a coat on, and the crisp night air was now harsh on his fingers. He suddenly thought of Harry, half asleep by the open front door, and hoped he managed to drag himself into a warmer room in the house.

“Yeah, we’re totally cool with you guys kissing, or whatever,” Theo chimed in, leaning forward from the left. “You know that, right?”

And—huh? Why were they talking about kissing?

“What?” Louis asked, trying his hardest to focus on the conversation. He was a clearly missing out on something.

“‘Cause you guys didn’t kiss _at all_ , tonight,” Rowan observed off-handedly. “But we could tell you really wanted to.” He added with a shrug.

“They eye-fucked a lot, though.” Niall teased with a grin.

Louis eyes widened. “We did _not!_ ” He blustered, feeling his cheeks heat up.

Did Niall think he was helping? Because he wasn’t.

“All we’re _saying_ is,” Sam cut in. “That while we _totally appreciate_ you two keeping it together, you are _allowed_ to kiss your _boyfriend_ in front of your mates.” He enunciated each word as if he was talking to a child.

And usually, Louis would have clocked any man who spoke to him like a two-year-old, but he knew there was something else Sam was trying to say.

True enough, he finished with, “You know, in case… you didn’t know… or something.” The sincerity in his voice was obvious, and once again, Louis was hit with the realization that his friends were _the shit._

Though of course the reason Harry and Louis weren’t kissing _in front_ of anyone was because they weren’t kissing _at all_ , his friends didn’t know that. Yet, they had been kind enough to find a way to assure Louis that his relationship was no different from any of theirs--that he could be as affectionate as he wanted in front of them, no ‘if’s or ‘but’s about it. And man, if that didn’t make them the best fucking friends in the world.

He smiled, wide and warm, ducking his head as they reached the row of cars parked outside the gate. “Cheers, lads. Thanks.”

“No worries.” Rowan smiled, patting him twice on the back. “Now, get back to your boy. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

After a series of cheery goodbyes to the boys and fervent promises not to be late to Liam, Louis sprinted back up the driveway, desperate to get back into the warmth of his house.

He pushed the door open quietly and peered inside. The sight he was greeted with made his chest flood with warmth.

Asleep on the stairwell was Harry, his head resting on one of the rungs on the bannister. One of his arms had successfully made it through his coat sleeve while the other hung loose at his side, hand clutching his beanie and messenger bag. It looked as if he had nodded off right in the middle of getting dressed to leave, which, Louis was sure, was exactly what had happened.

He tiptoed carefully into the room and towards the staircase. Leaning down, he gently caressed Harry’s arm.

“Harry,” He called, faint and gentle.

Bleary green eyes blinked open, red-rimmed and tired. “Hmm?” Harry mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.

“Hey, sleepy,” Louis said, a small smile resting on his lips. He bent down low, making sure Harry could hear him. “Let’s get you settled in the guest room, yeah?” He whispered. “You’re dead on your feet.” He chuckled softly.

Harry shook his head slowly, his eyes falling closed. “’M gonna go home. Gotta—“ Yawn. “Head home.”

“Not like that.” Louis laughed lightly. “You’ll fall asleep on the bus and end up in Scotland, you will. Just stay over. We’ve got an early day tomorrow, anyway.”

“Uh-uh,” Harry insisted, already half asleep again. “’M not gonna im…impose.”

“Harry,” Louis reprimanded, a tone of finality in his voice. “This house has eight bedrooms. You’re _hardly_ imposing.”

Green eyes blinked open, sluggish and lazy, barely and inch away from blue ones. Harry cocked his head to the side slightly. “Eight? Really?” He asked, drawl even thicker with the effort of staying awake.

“Well,” Louis began, a little sheepishly. “It has eight _potential_ bedrooms. I’ve only gotten around to setting up two—mine and one guest room.” He admitted with a shrug. “The rest are just giant stockrooms at the mo’.”

Harry chuckled, nodding sleepily. “Why am I not surprised?”

Louis slipped his fingers around Harry’s wrist, tugging gently. “You’ll stay, then?” He asked, low and tender.

_Wait, was his tone weird? Too fond, or something?_ He wondered, slightly panicked.

But they were friends, and friends were gentle with each other, he reasoned. It wasn’t odd.

It wasn't.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded around another yawn, interrupting Louis’ internal debate.

Harry’s eyes fell closed once more and Louis was thankful—he didn’t know how he would explain the smile he was currently trying to will down.

Louis let his fingers slide down from their place on Harry’s wrist, slipping them carefully in between Harry’s. He pulled gently, just enough to ease Harry into waking, before he hauled him to his feet.

They stumbled up the stairs and it took them twice as much time as it should have to reach the row of rooms, what with Harry wobbling on the staircase every two steps. Finally, Louis pushed the door to the guest room open.

“There you go, Styles.” He said, gesturing to the queen sized bed, soft and inviting in the dim light. “The bathroom is through that door on the left,” he pointed. “And the towels are in that cupboard, right there.”

Harry was leaning on the doorframe, his head lolling backwards, long neck on display. His heavy-lidded eyes met Louis’. “Got it,” he rasped, the sound making something hot simmer at the bottom of the footballer’s belly.

“Right,” Louis fumbled, looking away. “Just, um… Let me know if you—uh, need anything.”

He was just about to turn around and scurry back down the staircase when he found two large hands bracketing his body, pressing his back against the wall. Harry was hunched over him, forehead resting tiredly on Louis’ temple. He could feel his soft, warm breaths right by his ear.

And then, pillowy lips met his cheek in a peck so light Louis was certain he imagined it.

“Goodnight, Lou.” Harry sighed, pulling away. He walked into the room slowly, only turning back to offer Louis another sleepy smile before he closed the door gently.

It was then that Louis decided ‘Lou’ might be his favorite pet name yet.

  



	6. Day 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to all the people who are putting so much time, effort, and encouragement into this fic --  
> my lovely, lovely beta [@tempolarriefix](https://tempolarriefix.tumblr.com/) for all the editing, brainstorming, and kind words, my awesome Britpicker [@neveragainsimon](https://neveragainsimon.tumblr.com) for taking the time to be so thorough with comments, and the sweetest cheerleader [@iamasphodelknox](https://iamasphodelknox.tumblr.com/) for sharing ideas and giving me nice fuzzy feelings. You guys are the best! :)
> 
> Please feel free to tell me what you think in the comments, or come make friends on Tumblr [here](https://indiaalphawhiskey.tumblr.com/). :)
> 
> I am not, nor have I ever been, affiliated with the boys or their friends/family, and this is in no way reflective of their characters in real life.

CHAPTER 6

**SATURDAY**

Louis was still awake when his phone’s alarm went off at three in the morning. His eyes were itchy and exhausted, but the rest of him was wired. He hadn’t slept a wink.

He told himself it was because he was nervous for the Friendlies—a charity game whose outcome had no bearing on his career whatsoever—and definitely _not_ because he had spent the night repeatedly analyzing a sodding kiss _on the cheek_. Obviously.

And yet, as he pulled on his joggers and double-checked his overnight bag, he found himself thinking about it. _Again._ About Harry’s hands bracketing him against the wall, and how his warm breath had felt on the side of Louis’ face; his broad body and the way it had leaned against him, somehow solid and pliant all at the same time.

 _And those lips…_ Louis thought, lifting a hand to his cheek for the trillionth time that night.

He shook himself out of his reverie and frowned down at the rumpled contents of his duffle. Everything he needed was in there. Wrinkled beyond belief, but in there all the same.

He pulled at the zipper—once, twice, thrice—it wouldn’t budge.

“Of all the bloody—“ He cursed in frustration, tugging hard. Suddenly, a crisp ripping sound echoed through his dark bedroom. He stared in horror at the gaping hole in his Arsenal bag, right where the seam of the zipper should be. He groaned pitifully, flopping backwards on his bed and rubbing his tired eyes.

This barely-a-kiss kiss—platonic and so light he could scarcely remember feeling it—was driving him half insane, the culprit sleeping soundly across the hall, completely unaware of the trouble he had caused with his dangerous, drowsy actions.

“Oh my god, he didn’t even _mean_ it, Louis.” The footballer groaned aloud in the empty room, covering his face with his hands. “He was half asleep, for Christ’s sake.”

Just then, three gentle knocks sounded on the bedroom door causing Louis to jump five feet into the air.

“Louis?” Came Harry’s soft voice.

Louis clutched at his chest, trying his hardest to calm his heart’s frantic banging.

 _He didn’t hear you,_ he tried to convince himself inwardly.

“Come in,” he croaked, his heart still slamming against his ribcage.

His bedroom door creaked open, Harry padding through it in his thick black socks. His black jeans hung sinfully low, a pair of laurels peeking out below the hem of his thin Rolling Stones shirt, and Harry was definitely trying to kill him with these tattoos, Louis decided. _Absolutely._

“Good morning.” Harry greeted, smiling soft and easy. His dimples decided to make an appearance, which did nothing to slow Louis’ poor, exhausted heart.

“Hi,” He managed with an awkward wave. “I—um… What’s up?”

“I,” Harry started, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his jeans, looking a little bashful. “I was thinking—” He stopped short as he eyed the mess that was the overnight bag. “What happened?” He asked, chuckling.

Louis looked behind him to his clothes, haphazardly balled up and shoved into his ripped duffle. “I had some trouble packing.” He admitted, turning back.

Harry was grinning, wide and unabashed. “I wouldn’t call that packing.” He teased.

“Anything you put into a bag is _packing_ , Harry.” Louis countered haughtily, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes, if you’re four years old.” Harry giggled, plopping down beside him and making the bed bounce. He reached behind Louis and slid the bag towards him, pulling out a thoroughly wrinkled t-shirt, his eyebrow quirked high.

“Who _are_ you, the duffle bag police?” The older boy asked shrilly, grabbing the bag back and plopping it on his lap, his lips drawn into a deep frown.

Yeah, Louis was having a full-on strop.

He was tired, okay? He didn’t have the time or the energy to _fold_ things, or whatever. He had a game this afternoon and hadn’t slept at all, and it was all Harry’s fault anyway.

Besides, Louis was _great_ at packing, thank you very much. Some might even say mind-blowingly good at it.

He could see Harry trying to bite down another giggle. He cleared his throat.

“Louis,” he said solemnly. “May I _please_ fix your bag? For my own sanity, please?” His green eyes were wide and beseeching, his sincerity betrayed only by the slight quirk of his lips.

Louis eyed him. “Well, if it’s for _you_.” He sniffed.

Harry beamed. “It really, _really_ is.” He assured, taking all of the items out and folding them carefully one by one.

Within five minutes, all of Louis things had been expertly tucked inside a black Adidas sports bag, Harry zipping it up neatly with a satisfied smile on his face.

“I love packing.” He admitted sheepishly.

Louis couldn’t help the smirk that was teasing at his lips. “You’re a freak.”

Harry clutched his chest, pretending to be affronted. “See if I ever waste my skills on you again, Tomlinson.” He joked.

Louis laughed, and glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Three twenty.

He quickly slung the strap onto his shoulder, about to lift it off the bed, when he remembered that Harry had wanted ask him something when he entered earlier. “Did you need anything?” Louis asked, meeting Harry’s eyes.

Harry bit his lip. “Oh, um,” he started, looking down at his socked feet.

At the sight of Harry looking shy and uneasy, Louis’ heart began to sink. Harry was really going to do this now, wasn’t he? He had obviously come in here to set the record straight; tell Louis exactly what he already knew, and nip his pathetically unrequited attraction in the bud—the kiss on the cheek was a sleepy _accident_ , he didn’t _mean_ it, it was _platonic._

Louis braced himself for the words, already trying to school his features into a cool nonchalance to avoid any awkwardness.

Harry took a deep breath, seeming to steel himself. “I wanted to ask if I could borrow a jersey?” He said tentatively.

“Sorry?” Louis asked, caught off-guard.

Harry looked up at Louis’ puzzled face, bottom lip caught in his teeth, the tips of his ears faintly pink. “Ellie and Hannah, they were talking about wearing Sam and Theo’s jerseys to the game, to like, cheer them on in the stands,” he rushed out, cheeks getting rosier by the minute. “I… I thought it might look more authentic or something if I wore yours, too?” He finished, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I mean, I don’t _have_ to, obviously. I just thought it would help sell the story. It was probably a stupid idea…”

Harry trailed off, twisting the hem of his shirt nervously, eyes darting around the room in an effort to avoid eye contact.

Louis’ stomach began to flutter at the thought of Harry with ‘Tomlinson’ scrawled sharp and bright across his broad back and suddenly he couldn’t fight the cheeky grin that was resting on his lips.

“Are you done?” He asked teasingly, dropping his bag on the floor.

Harry nodded, eyes downcast and fingers fidgeting. Louis chuckled as he turned around and headed to his closet. He pulled the bottom drawer open, the striking red of all his kits bright in the dark room. He lifted the stack, and carefully chose the one at the very bottom—his first Arsenal uniform.

He smiled to himself as he remembered how he had felt when he had put it on for the first time, the disbelief that it was really _his_ name and _his_ number printed on the back.

“Here,” He said, offering the neatly folded shirt to Harry with a soft smile. “That one’s my favourite—it’ll look good on you.”

Harry eyed the proffered jersey hesitantly. “It might not be a good idea to lend me your _favourite_ one,” He admitted, cheeks still tinged pink. “I… you know, I trip. You’ve seen me. And, I spill things and—“

Louis could feel himself melting into a puddle. Harry was just too sweet, he almost gave Louis a toothache.

“I want you to wear it, though.” Louis insisted with an easy smile. “It’s my good luck charm and,” He grinned wolfishly. “If you spill anything on it, there’s this great thing we do now called ‘ _laundry’_.”

“I—I really don’t—“

“Harry, please, take the shirt.”

Louis watched Harry war with his sensibilities, the struggle plain in his green eyes. Finally, after three minutes of what seemed to be a very heated internal debate, he reached out to touch the silky fabric. “If you’re sure…?”

“I am,” Louis laughed, letting the jersey fall through his fingers and into Harry’s hand.

Harry’s head was bowed, his fingers touching the white Arsenal logo almost reverently. “O-Okay,” He breathed, looking up at Louis. “I’ll go…” He threw a nervous thumb over his shoulder and gestured to the door. “I’ll go put this in my bag.”

Louis nodded, and watched him pad quietly to the door, a little envious of the way his kit was being held so carefully in Harry’s hands.

And wasn’t that just absurd, to be jealous of an inanimate object? He rolled his eyes at himself and turned back toward his bed, ready to pick his duffle up again when—

“And, Lou?” Harry chirped softly from the open door.

There it was again, the nickname. Would Louis’ heart never get a moment’s peace?

“Hmm?” He hummed, trying to keep his tone cool as he looked up.

Harry was standing with the door ajar, only half of his body still inside the bedroom. “Thanks. I swear, I won’t eat a single thing while I’m wearing it.” He promised seriously, before throwing Louis a small smile and walking into the hall.

As the door clicked shut, Louis sighed heavily.

Harry Styles and his ridiculous cuteness were really starting to become a problem, he decided.

\---

Louis blinked his eyes open slowly as the team bus parked with a loud hiss. The drive to Manchester, which would have usually felt like an eternity, had suddenly passed in a second.

Throughout the four-hour ride, Louis hadn’t been able to keep himself awake for more than five minutes at a time—and really only to text Harry, who, he could see through his window, was now stepping off the partners’ bus.

Harry stretched languidly under a sunbeam, his shirt riding up so high that Louis could spot the dimples at the bottom of his spine.

“Yer staring.”

Louis jumped in surprise, clutching at his heart. “Jesus, Niall, really? It’s eight in the fucking morning—don’t _do_ that.”

Niall grinned back at him, bright and mischievous, his eyes happy behind his dark sunglasses. “I won’t tell anyone. Promise.” He said with a cheeky wink. He made an obnoxious kissing sound in Louis’ direction, and really, Niall was all of five years old.

“Mature.” Louis muttered, ignoring the insinuation and hitching his duffle over his shoulder. His friend laughed, patting him on the back playfully.

It was a tight squeeze to get through the narrow aisle of the bus, their bulky overnight bags bopping against their backs with every step they took, so the kiss of wind as they stepped off the platform felt like heaven to Louis. The sun was bright on his face as he pulled his aviators over his eyes, spotting Harry a few steps away, chatting with Liam and Maggie, Rowan’s wife.

He walked up to them, sliding an arm around Harry’s waist. It was unnecessary, he knew, but when he felt Harry lean comfortably into his side, he couldn’t be arsed to care. Besides, Catherine had asked for PDA, hadn’t she?

He saw Liam raise an eyebrow at them, and Louis tried to convey his sarcastic comment telepathically. It didn’t quite have the same effect, so he shifted his attention to the boy in his arms instead.

“Hi love,” he greeted softly, the pet name slipping from his lips so naturally that it took him a while to remember they didn’t call each other stuff like that—not _really._ His eyes widened slightly and his breath hitched, wondering if Harry had noticed.

Harry turned look at him, smiling gently. Their faces were only a few inches apart, Louis mused idly, tipping his head up to make eye contact. It would take less than a nanosecond to close the gap between them, and also, Louis should stop having thoughts like that, lest one of them slip out of his mouth, too.

“Hi handsome,” Harry breathed back, eyes twinkling playfully and a tiny smirk resting on the corner of his lip.

 _Ah, caught then._ Louis thought, bashfully ducking his head to hide the soft flush settling in his cheeks.

“Blacked out on the bus, didn’t you?” Harry continued. Louis looked up to find him grinning cheekily.

Louis nodded, yawning around his laugh and covering his mouth with his fist. “Figured it out after it took me two hours to reply to a yes or no question?”

“That, and Niall sent me a picture.” Harry teased, brandishing his phone just out of Louis’ reach. The screen displayed a sleeping Louis, mouth wide open, mid-snore.

“Oh my god,” He groaned, burying his face in Harry’s shoulder.

Harry shook with laughter, and Louis could hear more giggling behind him.

He pointed blindly in what should be Niall’s direction. “I’m going to murder you, Horan.” He promised. And—wait a minute. He jerked his head up, peering skeptically at Niall. “How do you even have Harry’s number?”

“I asked fer it?” He said simply, unaffected by Louis’ accusatory tone. “He and I have a connection, y’know.” He announced matter-of-factly, grinning as Louis’ eyes narrowed even more.

Louis held Harry tighter, wrapping both arms around him from behind, and peeking over his shoulder. “Absolutely not. No more connecting for you.” He decided, causing the group to burst into amused laughter.

“Aw, _jealous_ Tommo!” Niall cooed, leaning forward to pinch his cheek hard. Louis jerked away from the touch and stuck his tongue out childishly, Harry still giggling in his arms.

“So adorable, you guys.” Maggie laughed, eyes sparkling at the make-believe couple.

“And _so_ late.” Liam cut in, pointing to his watch meaningfully.

Louis rolled his eyes but started walking after Liam anyway, unwinding himself from Harry slowly and intertwining their fingers before there was too much space between them. They both slowed their pace, falling behind the group hand-in-hand, steps unhurried.

“Nice touch, back there.” Harry whispered conspiratorially, grin wide.

“Hmm?” Louis asked, an easy smile on his face as he gazed at those green, green eyes. Harry’s dimple was etched deeply into his right cheek, and Louis was distracted.

“The hug,” Harry said, by way of explanation. “Maggie ate it up.” He smiled.

 _Ah._ Louis thought, his heart sinking ever so slightly. He gently slipped his fingers out of Harry’s and put his hands in his pockets, suddenly conscious of how often he had carelessly grabbed Harry’s hand since yesterday.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly, praying his voice came out even. “Just what I was going for.” He mumbled under his breath. He looked away, trying to ignore small pit forming in his stomach, and caught Liam beckoning him closer.

Harry seemed to have noticed, too, both their steps quickening simultaneously. As they approached Liam at the reception desk, Louis noticed a worried crease in his manager’s brow.

“Li? You alright?” Louis asked, placing a hand on Liam’s shoulder as Harry walked up behind him.

“Yeah, but you won’t be.” Niall quipped, just soft enough for the four of them to hear.

Liam looked at Louis tiredly, and then at the receptionist, standing tall and happy behind her desk. She had a bright smile and pretty features, light hair pulled into a neat bun behind her head.

Liam sighed. “Kindly explain Mr. Tomlinson’s accommodations again, Sophie.”

“Gladly, Mr. Payne.” She chirped. She turned to Louis, and if possible, her smile widened. She looked like she was a spokesperson in a toothpaste commercial. “Mr. Tomlinson, your management called.”

_Oh fuck._

“They asked that your original reservation—two single rooms—be changed to a deluxe room with a single, queen-sized bed,”

_Oh fucking fuck._

“But we didn’t have any more available, due to the Friendlies being hosted so near by.” She explained, a soft, troubled line appearing on her brow.

 _Oh, thank God._ Louis thought with a relieved sigh.

Sharing a room with Harry was really more than he could handle right no—

“So we upgraded you to one of our best suites, instead! One king-sized bed, a deluxe double-bath, and balcony access.” She practically sang, vibrating with excitement. When she was met with silence, her eyes darted around the group, smile strained at the less-than-stellar reaction her news had incited. “…free of charge!” She added, hurriedly.

Louis swallowed nervously, his shoulders tensing. He could feel Harry standing rigidly beside him, breathing all but halted.

“T-thanks… so much…” Louis managed, forcing a smile onto his face. He probably looked like he was in pain.

Sophie didn’t seem to notice, a sigh of relief passing her lips at Louis’ tokenistic sentiment. “It was our pleasure, Mr. Tomlinson. Accommodations are at one hundred percent capacity this weekend—your old bookings were snatched up in two seconds!” She twittered, beside herself with pride.

“Er, right,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “If you’ll just… give me a moment? I have to make a call.” He stammered, throwing his thumb over his shoulder, motioning to an empty spot in the lobby.

Her smile never wavered. “Yes, of course! Let me just get the keys ready for you and mister… Styles.” She beamed at Harry as she read his name off the computer screen.

Louis looked beseechingly at Liam, who shook his head tiredly. “Call Catherine, Lou.” He sighed, defeated.

Louis nodded, taking out his phone and clicking her name in the contacts. He wandered a short distance away from his friends as the line rang. A sharp click sounded on the third ring.

“Louis.” She muttered flatly, her tone dispelling Louis’ earlier discomfort and replacing it with blistering annoyance.

“Catherine,” he bit back succinctly. He cut straight to the chase, voice sharp, demanding an explanation. “Our rooms—or should I say, our _room._ ”

“Yes,” she sighed, and Louis could imagine her examining her fingernails in boredom. “I fixed it. You’re welcome.” There was a challenge in her tone, as if she was baiting him into yelling at her and embarrassing himself in public.

“Catherine, what the fuck?!” He hissed into the receiver, careful to keep his volume low. “You _know_ we can’t sleep on the same bed, we’re not even—“ He stopped himself just short of saying the words aloud. He glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying him any mind.

“ _I_ know, Louis, but the _hotel_ does not.” She said, clipped and firm. “What were you thinking, booking two rooms? Are you an idiot?” The question was rhetorical, and Louis hated that he let her speak to him that way. “Not sleeping in the same bed _reeks_ of PR—we’d be found out faster than you can blink. Hotel staff _talk_ , Louis. Have you learned nothing from _every_ Taylor Swift stunt thus far?”

“It’s an _away_ game, Cat. WAGs aren’t _allowed_ to stay in the same room as their players.” He argued. “Don’t tell me the rules are different just because Harry’s a guy.”

“It’s a _charity_ game. There’re no rules because it’s off season.” And—crap. She had him there, and the smirk in her voice told him she knew it. “Go on,” she baited. “Ask Sam and Rowan if Ellie and Mags are staying in the same room.”

He _had_ heard Sam promising to meet Ellie in Room 321 with all of their luggage.

Louis let out a frustrated groan.

“That’s right, they _are_.” Catherine sang triumphantly.

“Couldn’t you have given me a fair warning, at least?” He moaned. “You blindsided me _and_ Liam, Cat. How am I meant to explain this to Harry now?”

Catherine scoffed. “Please. You don’t think I know where Payne’s loyalties lie?” She laughed drily. “He would’ve found you two rooms in the middle of nowhere just to protect you.”

She was right, and he tried not to cringe at the way Catherine could predict moves before they were even made. Evil was often coupled with genius, after all, and from now on, Louis would take this as a personal challenge to start upping his game.

“As for Harry,” She said, interrupting his internal tirade. “Tell him the truth in your fancy suite— _away_ from prying ears.”

Louis sighed, too tired to keep fighting. He was just about to pull the phone away from his ear and angrily (albeit unsatisfyingly) press ‘End Call’ when Catherine added, “Oh, and, you might want to mention the fact that you two need to start kissing ASAP.”

He felt his eyes bug out of his head. “Excuse me?” He squeaked.

“ _Kissing,_ Louis. You need to kiss him.”

 _“Why?!”_ He whined, exhausted, overwhelmed, and completely unable to quell his rising tantrum.

“Because it’s getting suspicious.” She stated simply. “You’re _all over each other_ in the pap pictures, and then all of a sudden you’re basically _celibate_?”

“You told us to take it slow.” He argued pointlessly, rubbing his temples in frustration. There were just too many things happening, and he should have known better than to try and tackle Catherine without back-up. His will to live was already seeping through the floor and it was barely eight thirty.

“I take it back. Kiss him. Today.” She commanded, and with a _click!_ the call ended.

Louis blew out a breath, willing himself not to scream.

 _Fucking Catherine._ He thought, glaring at his phone as the screen went dark. He looked up and saw Harry eyeing him from the reception desk.

He flashed Louis a thumbs up, though his brow was creased. A silent question— _Is everything alright?_

Louis shook his head sadly, and began to trudge forward.

_Here it goes._

\---

Once the four boys were in the privacy of the lift, Louis quickly explained what had transpired over phone, Niall and Liam hissing relentless profanities at Catherine until the doors pinged open and dropped them off on their floors. After agreeing to see each other on the field, the two boys waved goodbye to Harry and Louis, marching down the corridor and to their rooms.

The doors slid closed, and suddenly the ride to the suite was coated in tense silence, Louis awkwardly glancing in Harry’s direction, watching the curly haired boy stare into space. The _ding!_ signaling their arrival seemed so much louder this time that Louis had to stop himself from jumping in surprise.

He shouldered his duffle and walked to the double doors at the end of the hall, the whirring of the mechanical lock and Harry’s muffled footsteps the only other sound between them.

“Holy shit,” Harry mumbled in awe as the door swung open.

Though Louis had stayed in his fair share of impressive rooms when he was away on holiday, this one was easily the most luxurious he had been given while working. It was leagues away from the glorified dormitories the players were usually booked at—just a pair of twin beds, a comfortable bathroom, and _maybe_ a fully stocked mini-fridge _if_ you were lucky.

This one was up to honeymoon standards, Louis realized woefully. _Just perfect._ He scoffed.

The plush, king-sized bed was pushed to the furthest corner of the room against an intricately carved, cherry wood headboard; the cozy, cream sheets were bathed entirely in morning light. Across the space was a row of floor to ceiling windows that led to the balcony where a small breakfast nook had been set up overlooking the view. Twin daybeds were placed just to the right of a soft carpet, scores of throw pillows pouring out of them, begging to be lounged on.

“I think we could host a party in the shower.” Harry chuckled, strolling out of the bathroom and plopping onto the bed with a bounce.

The footballer bit his tongue, swallowing the indecent quip that had been resting there—something about not being a fan of sharing Harry, shower or not.

Their eyes met, Harry’s sparkling with mischievousness, as if he knew exactly what Louis was thinking. Louis broke eye contact and cleared his throat.

“Erm, you—you can take the bed.” He offered, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. He pointed to the rather opulent sofa behind him. “I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

“What?” Harry asked, eyes widening in surprise. “No, that hardly seems fair. This is _your_ room.”

“It’s _our_ room,” Louis corrected. “Catherine made sure of _that_.” He chuckled humorlessly. He was relieved to hear Harry snort at the comment. “Take the bed, Harry. I dragged you into this mess, the least I can do is make sure you have a good night’s sleep.”

He looked up to find Harry leaning against the headboard, head cocked to the side and eyes searching his face.

“Besides,” Louis continued, twisting his fingers nervously. “I—I have a rather big favor to ask of you.”

Harry had made himself comfortable, his socked feet crossed on the duvet. “Bigger than pretending to be your fake boyfriend?” He joked easily, a disbelieving tone to his voice.

“I… didn’t _ask_ that time,” Louis admitted, tentatively. He felt the air grow heavier. “And I’m sorry.”

He heard Harry breathe in sharply, and Louis eyes fell to the floor, the guilt rushing back to him as he remembered how they ended up in this situation. He realized selfishly that he didn’t regret it— _couldn’t_ —not when Harry was kind, and sweet, and understanding, and fun.

He couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine doing this with anyone else—much less the vapid insta-model Catherine had originally intended for him.

Still, he had taken a lot from Harry—had limited his freedom, and unintentionally jeopardized his career—and he vowed he wouldn’t take anything more; at least, not without his permission.

“You… you already apologized.” Harry said softly. “But, thank you. Apology accepted.” His slow, sweet drawl had a tone of finality to it, firm and decisive.

Louis looked up to find those kind, green eyes watching him, a gentle smile gracing Harry’s beautiful features, and Louis knew he was forgiven. He smiled back sheepishly, secretly elated by the effect of his spontaneous apology, happy to have righted his wrong even slightly.

“So,” Harry started, his lips quirking upward playfully. “That favor?”

Louis felt the calmness drain straight out of his system, replaced by a sizzling flush creeping up his neck. He swallowed, trying to string the words together properly and coming up blank. “I—uh,” He swallowed again.

Why was his mouth so dry?

“You…?” Harry intoned, trying to help him along.

“I—I mean, Cat. Catherine,” Louis stuttered, clenching his fists to his side and willing himself to pull it together.

_Spit it out._

“Catherinewantsustokisstoday.” He felt the mess of syllables fall out of his mouth and scatter all over the carpet. He could feel his heart skip a beat—could almost hear it in the silence, except… was Harry… laughing at him?

He looked up, eyes widening in surprise as he saw Harry shaking in amusement on the bed.

“Was that even in English?” He giggled, clutching his stomach like a child.

Louis narrowed his eyes, his cheeks growing impossibly warmer. “Harry,” he whined, extending the Y.

“Slower, this time, Lou.” He teased, relishing in Louis’ blatant discomfort. “Spaces between the words would help, really.”

Louis wanted to pinch him—or kiss him so hard the cheeky smile slid right off his absurdly pretty face. He couldn’t decide.

Instead, he took a deep breath and steeled himself.

“Catherine wants us to, um,” He gestured between them stupidly, and Harry quirked his brow in question. Louis rolled his eyes. If only you could Bluetooth awkward thoughts to other people. “She wants us to kiss today. I… if that’s alright.” He finished, finally.

He willed himself to look Harry in the eye. Maybe if he pretended this wasn’t uncomfortable, it wouldn’t be. This was business. Still, some part of him felt nervous—vulnerable to rejection. He was _asking_ , after all, and Harry could very well say no—say that kissing was too far, too intimate, and just _no_.

And Louis would respect it if he didn’t want to; would find a way around Catherine if this made Harry uncomfortable, he promised silently.

“She…” Harry began, clearing his throat. “She asked if it was okay with me?” He said, peering at Louis curiously.

“No,” He admitted, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “That was me. I—I wanted to ask you if it was alright if we kissed today, in front of the press. It doesn’t have to be a long one. Even a small peck on the cheek, like—“

 _Like last night,_ he thought, biting his tongue before he said it. He looked up, trying to read Harry’s expression, trying to figure out if he had caught Louis’ fumble.

Louis watched him, face calm and composed as he bit his lip in thought, no sign that he had heard the hesitation in the sentence.

“What does Liam think?” Harry asked, thoughtfully.

“I haven’t told him yet,” Louis admitted, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pockets, if only to give them something to do. “I wanted to ask you first.”

At that, he could have sworn he saw Harry’s eyes soften ever so slightly, though the rest of his expression did nothing to betray his thoughts.

“Alright.” He decided with a small nod.

Louis looked up at him in slight disbelief. That was not the answer he was expecting. “Yeah?” He asked, slightly incredulous.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed simply, his posture loosening into something more casual. “I mean, I get it—that it’s necessary. I knew we’d get there eventually when I agreed to this.” He shrugged easily. There was a boyish smile on his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway, it’s just a kiss. Not a big deal.”

If Louis had any more doubts about last night’s events, Harry had clearly dispelled them. _Not a big deal._

“Right.” Louis agreed. He didn’t need a mirror to know that his smile came out crooked and stiff.

“Just… signal me, or something, when you’re ready.” Harry said, getting up from the bed and patting down the rumpled sheets. As he straightened, he gestured to the open door behind him casually. “I’m going to freshen up.” He announced, already heading in the direction of the bathroom.

Louis nodded dumbly, his thoughts still muddled as he heard the door click shut.

He sat back on the sofa, the cushion bouncing his body just a bit. “Not a big deal,” He repeated, trying to ignore the way his heart felt like it was sinking to his feet.

\---

The Football Friendlies were so named because they were meant to be _friendly._

Once every year, the Premier League teams gathered at the tournament to play a few matches under the banners of their chosen charities. Their beneficiaries were invited to watch and in the end each charity (regardless of whether their team had won or not) would go home with a sum donated by the players and some of their wealthier sponsors.

Though the matches were supposedly the highlight of the day, this year the players went the extra mile and offered to host football clinics with the beneficiaries. From technical basics to mock matches, Arsenal and every other club would spend their time off the field teaching their guests tips and tricks.

Harry was fully aware of this—had read articles on the prior tournaments and asked Louis extensive questions on the decision to change this year’s format.

And yet, no amount of research, reading, or fact-checking could have prepared his heart for the sight of Louis William Tomlinson, star striker and all-around dreamboat, teaching seven-year-olds how to do keepie-uppies.

The image was painfully adorable (a phrase Harry had found himself attributing to Louis more and more over the last few days) and that was definitely a problem, he decided, as he watched Louis weave in and out of the group, gently nudging a foot or correcting someone’s posture.

“Good job, Adam. Very good form.” Louis praised from within the circle of children.

Adam’s pink cheeks puffed up in response, chuffed at the compliment, beads of sweat dripping to the ground from his earlier concentration, and Harry felt the now familiar warmth coating his insides at the sight.

The lesson only got progressively cuter when Louis, deciding the kids needed as much encouragement as he could provide, started reciting senseless cheers and making the kids chant along with him, their little voices elated as they mimicked everything ‘Coach Tommo’ said.

“I don’t know but I’ve been told,” Louis hollered with a smile on his face.

“I don’t know but I’ve been told,” The children copied enthusiastically.

“Tommo’s dog is really old,” He continued, smiling.

The kids laughed raucously, unable to get through the phrase without breaking into another round of giggles. Louis smiled widely at Harry and winked, silly and mischievous.

Harry rolled his eyes, smiling back.

“Weirdo.” He mouthed, to which Louis crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, and Harry wondered idly how on earth a funny face could still cause his heart to skip a beat.

Now would be a really good time for science to grant him that immunity he had been waiting for. Otherwise, a few more days of Louis may well and truly kill him.

 _You’ve already slipped up,_ he reminded himself, thinking back to the events of last night and cringing in embarrassment.

He had been sleepy, and Louis had been… doting, and wonderful, and so very _Louis._ It had made Harry forget that none of it--none of _this--_ was real; that there had been no audience there to hide his growing affection behind.

 _But, you played it off well,_ he insisted, shrugging inwardly.

He had decided, as he lay blinking blearily at the ceiling of Louis’ guest room last night, that the best way to deal with any lingering attraction was to consciously remind himself that this was _work_ \--a business arrangement.

And so, when Louis had mentioned _kissing_ earlier, triggering his defenses, Harry had done the only thing a mature and professional person could: he’d lied.

_Not a big deal._

He almost laughed out loud now at how nonchalant he had sounded; worldly and utterly blasé about physical affection. _As if._

Just then, a sudden movement startled Harry out of his thoughts. He watched in slow motion as Amelia, a little girl with pretty, ginger ringlets fell forward and hit the ground hard in an effort to keep control of the ball she had been dribbling. He barely heard the sickening _thump!_ before he leapt up from his place on the bench, and strode briskly to where Louis was already picking her up off the grass.

Louis knelt down with one leg propped up, and placed the little girl on his knee. His eyes quickly skimmed her arms and legs for any scrapes and bruises.

“Are you alright, hon?” He asked, dusting her off gently as Harry squatted to her height.

She nodded, her chubby cheeks pink with embarrassment; sweet, brown eyes filling with tears.

“Does something hurt?” Harry asked, rubbing her back softly.

“N-no…” She stuttered, her lip wobbling, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

“Shh, love. You’re okay.” Louis soothed kindly. “Everyone has a fall once in awhile, yeah? What matters is that you’re not hurt.”

“I…” Amelia started, head ducked down. “I was at seven already… and now I don’t think I can do it again.”

Harry felt his heart fracture at her dejected tone, but just as he was about to pat her knee in sympathy, Louis tipped her chin up to look him in the eye.

“Seven?!” He asked, incredulously, smiling wide as she nodded. “That’s _amazing!_ You know, I couldn’t even make it to seven keepie-uppies until I was _eleven._ ”

“R-really?” She questioned, unbelieving. Had Harry been in her place, he would have been doubtful, too—he couldn’t imagine a Louis that struggled with football. Not even at eleven.

“Really.” Louis confirmed with a short nod. “I had to practice, practice, practice all day just to make it to ten, and you got to seven on your first day.” He said, eyes bright and happy. “You’re a _natural,_ and I bet you could do it again if you try.”

Amelia thought for a moment, and then threw back a toothy smile. “Okay,” She agreed. “I want to try again.”

“Excellent!” Louis exclaimed with a wink as Amelia hopped off his knee.

She had already turned halfway towards the circle of kids, when she swiveled back suddenly and threw her little arms around Louis’ neck.

The footballer didn’t seem surprised by the affection at all, instantly wrapping his arms around the tiny girl and squeezing gently. The sight made Harry’s heart clench.

 _I need a drink._ He thought, defeatedly.

“Thanks, Coach.” She sighed happily, before wiggling herself out of Louis’ grasp and sprinting back to where the abandoned football was waiting for her.

Both men stood up and watched as she took her place in the lineup, immediately proceeding with the exercise. Harry turned to face Louis, whose pleased, blue eyes were still on Amelia.

“Sweet kid.” Louis commented.

“You were so good with her.” Harry noted, trying to swallow the awe in his voice. It wouldn’t do to be any more awed by Louis than he already was.

Louis looked back at him with a smile and a small shrug. “Being the eldest of seven will do that to you. I’m especially good with little girls.” He grinned. “Don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I am a _wicked_ hair-braider.”

Harry threw back his head with the force of his laughter. “You’re joking!” He exclaimed, disbelieving. “You _do not_ braid your sisters’ hair.”

“I do _so_ , Harry Everret—“

“Edward.”

“—Styles.” He winked cheekily at Harry. “When all four of them have to run to a ballet class straight after school, you can’t leave your mum hanging.”

Harry chuckled, imagining Louis quickly French braiding the hair of four tiny girls in pink tutus. It was adorable.

“You’re ridiculous,” He said instead, smiling fondly even through his eye roll. He dusted himself off and began walking back to the bench he had been seated on before Amelia’s fall.

“Ridiculously _talented._ ” Louis corrected, falling into step with him.

“No.” Harry denied, fighting a losing battle against the smile on his lips.

“ _And_ absurdly adorable.” Louis added, pivoting and walking backward, to keep himself facing Harry.

“Absolutely not.”

“ _And_ outrageously sexy.”

“Aren’t the kids _waiting_ for you?” Harry shot back, eyes narrowed.

Louis broke into bright, happy laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Harry realized woefully that, as of late, it felt like all his heart could ever do around Louis was beat faster. It was it’s natural state, almost.

If it wasn’t Louis’ laugh, it was his eyes—or his smile, or his perfectly chiseled cheeks, _or_ the way his hips swayed when he chased after a football—that caused a frantic rhythm to start up within him. And, no matter how valiantly he refused his affection for Louis, his heart (the sneaky traitor) was entirely unconvinced.

“Hey, Harry?” Louis called, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Hmm?” He hummed in response, only now realizing that Louis was already halfway across the field, taking his place next to the kids.

“You didn’t deny that I was outrageously sexy.” He teased, with a wink and a little hip shimmy.

And well, Harry’s mum _did_ always tell him not to lie.

\---

An hour before Arsenal’s match against Liverpool—or, technically _London Youth’s_ match against the _Liverpool Children’s Hospital_ —Harry had run up to their shared hotel room to put on the jersey Louis had lent him, and Louis had been shepherded into the locker room without his good luck kiss on the cheek.

Louis wasn’t _disappointed_ or anything. Obviously not. He was merely _concerned_ that they’d never hear the end of Catherine’s grating voice if a blasted kiss didn’t make the pap photos, that’s all.

As he pulled on his boots, he heard his phone chime from beside him on the locker room bench. He turned to read the message just as Sam snatched the phone up from its place, a teasing grin already on his face.

“ _Lou,_ ” He read aloud, waggling his eyebrows and pulling the phone just out of Louis’ reach.

“Mind your own beeswax, Renner.” Louis called out good-naturedly, trying and failing to swipe the phone from his friend’s grasp.

Sam held the phone up high, dangling it right out of Louis’ reach.

“ _Sorry I didn’t get to catch you before the game._ ” He sang out sweetly. “ _See you out there. You’ll do great!_ ”

A round of wolf whistles echoed through the group.

“’You’ll do great.’” Niall quoted, batting his eyelashes furiously.

“Thank you, Niall.” Louis sassed, sticking his tongue out and grabbing his phone back. “I will, in fact, do great, as this _is_ my chosen profession.”

“ _And_ because your boy is watching.” Theo called out, punctuating the sentence with kissing sounds.

“Alright, that’s enough.” George interrupted, clapping his hands. “Hustle everyone, they’re calling us onto the field in two minutes!”

The room was suddenly filled with a symphony of random clothes being thrown into lockers, their metal doors slamming one after the other as people tossed their valuables in.

Louis glanced down at the phone in his hand, the ringer now off. He quickly scanned Harry’s message, re-reading the words that Sam had announced. For the most part, it was exactly the same. And then, another text popped in.

**HS:**

**Sorry I didn’t catch you before the game.**

**See you out there. You’ll do great! (01.30 pm)**

**Good luck, love. ;) x (01.32 pm)**

Harry was obviously teasing, the pet name now reading as an inside joke, even through the clinical format of text messaging. But that wasn’t the part that caught Louis’ focus, no.

His eyes were drawn, instead, to the tiny, black, almost insignificant _x_ Harry had sent.

And though it wasn’t _precisely_ what Louis had in mind, it still sent a rush of warmth through his belly, and light flush up his cheeks.

 _A good luck kiss._ He realized, the corners of his lips turning upward involuntarily.

\---

It was an unwritten rule between clubs that the Friendlies were considered a cease-fire. Since each team was carrying a charity’s banner, rivalries were briefly shed and left off the field. Today, the footballers’ main goal (pun fully intended) was to make each match one worth watching.

It was a particularly hard task to accomplish, Louis found, when Harry Styles was sitting attentively in the stands _wearing your jersey._

He watched the fabric of his kit sit snugly on Harry’s broad shoulders as he crossed his arms, troubled when Sam had missed Rowan’s assist. The sleeve bulged at his bicep as Harry bit his thumbnail nervously, watching Niall block three consecutive goal attempts. The hem rose obscenely when Harry threw his arms up in frustration at Moreno’s ridiculous and unnecessary dive.

For the better part of nearly two hours, Louis’ brain had been invaded by _HarryHarryHarry,_ even if the aforementioned distraction was seated almost fifty feet away.

Which is why George’s booming command of “TOMMO! HEADER!” caught Louis entirely off-guard.

He jerked his head upward just in time to watch the football sailing straight at him from above, and that’s when instinct finally took over. He jumped up, angling his forehead towards the upper left corner of the goalpost, the ball colliding with him at the exact right moment and—

“It’s _in!_ ” He imagined the commentator's voice as his boots touched the ground.

_Tied at one-one._

“Excellent!” Sam hooted through cupped hands.

There was no time to celebrate, though, as Louis saw his captain make a mad dash across the field, hoping to gain control of the ball the second it was back in play. He rushed after George, the high of a goal bringing back his laser focus.

The ball was in his possession again in less than ten seconds, Ollie kicking it smoothly into the arch of his right foot. He maneuvered it expertly toward the end of the field, narrowly avoiding a steal.

He aimed for dead center, kicked hard, and watched in slow motion as the ball sailed just this side of too low and hit Manninger right in the chest.

 _Damn it._ He cursed inwardly. That was an easy score, and he knew it.

“S’alright,” George said as he jogged up to him. “Final play.” He instructed, with two heavy thumps to Louis’ shoulder.

Louis nodded, raising his forearm to swipe the sweat off his brow. The referee flashed two minutes to full time.

He strode back to his spot in the formation, the other lads already in place, and heard the referee whistle once more to signal that the ball was back in play.

To Louis, the last two minutes of a game always seemed to fly by in a mess of limbs and quick thinking. This one was no different.

He imagined the echo of a ticking clock beat through the air as he ran to his place nearest the opposition’s goal, watching as Theo dribbled the ball halfway across the field with Ollie hot on his heels. As Ollie overtook Theo, he positioned himself directly diagonal to Louis—George’s favorite play. Theo passed the ball to Ollie who kicked it high up in the air.

Louis calculated quickly, his pulse pumping as he heard the heavy footfalls of three of his opponents coming to surround him.

It was too high for a header, he knew, and there was only one way to get that ball into the goal in time.

Without a second thought, he propelled himself into the air, twisting his body to allow the ball to smack against his foot. He heard the slap of leather on leather before he felt himself land _hard_ on something -- his ankle twisting at an odd angle as he fell to the ground.

He bent his head just so and saw as the ball hit the net. He couldn’t help but smile, proud and wide, though a niggling pain was coursing through his leg. They’d won.

Down on the ground, Louis could feel the vibrations of multiple feet barreling toward him, and suddenly several shadowy figures blocked the sun that had been getting into his eyes only moments before.

“Louis, are you alright?” George asked, crouching down next to him. “Can you move?”

Distantly, he heard Sam muttering angrily under his breath. “--diving here and there like a lunatic, bound to get someone injured. It’s not the bloody World Cup, arsehole! Calm down!”

Louis chuckled, low and deep, as he felt four strong hands help him to his feet and hook his arms around their necks.

“Alright?” Rowan asked, a concerned frown marring his features.

Louis nodded slowly, his head still a little woozy from the way he hit the ground.

“Medic!” George called over his shoulder. “We need a medic!”

“It’s just a bruise,” Louis argued, leaning heavily against Rowan.

Niall eyed his leg. “Mm-hmm…” He hummed skeptically.

Louis tried to wiggle his foot from side to side and got a sharp, painful twinge for his trouble. He looked down at his leg. Aside from the soft, red indents of studs on his shin, nothing seemed amiss. He could feel the bruise forming though, thick and blue and heavy under his skin.

“On the bright side,” he chuckled easily. “At least there’s no blood.”

Sam stared back at him in nauseated horror. “Oh God, the image is making me want to wretch.”

“You broke your leg in four places once,” Rowan pointed out, raising his eyebrow in confusion. “It’s so weird that the mention of blood automatically makes you want to vom.” 

“I’m not good with blood, so sue me.” Sam snapped.

“Where the hell is the blasted med—oof!“ Louis was cut off abruptly by a warm, solid weight engulfing him in a tight hug.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” Harry murmured into his ear, any hesitation all but forgotten in the wake of an injury. (Not that Louis was complaining.) “What the fuck was that guy thinking?” He grumbled, agitated. “Can you _get_ a red card after they call time? Because he bloody well deserves one.”

Though his voice was still low and slow, his speech was peppered with irritated curses, the blatant protectiveness sparking a sense of giddiness in Louis.

Harry was worried, Louis realized, delighted.

He pulled Louis tight against him, snatching almost all of his weight out of Rowan’s arms while rubbing circles on the small of his back. The motions made Louis smile, and as he hooked his chin over Harry’s shoulder, he decided if life hands you lemons…

“Love,” He croaked pathetically, trying to hide his smile by burrowing his nose into Harry’s neck. “It hurts.” He whimpered.

“What? Where? Where’s the medic?” Came Harry’s frantic questioning. He tried to pull Louis away from him—maybe to assess the damage himself, but Louis only nuzzled into his neck more.

“It huuurts…” He whined dramatically, pressing his nose deeper into Harry’s soft skin. Absently, he noted Harry smelled good—clean and warm, like fresh laundry. He dragged his nose up and down in a slow, tickling motion.

“Louis?” Harry questioned, still confused.

Louis sped up the movements, giggling to himself as he felt Harry shiver.

“Louis!” He reprimanded on a laugh, pushing him off and gently back into Rowan’s sturdy arms. “Oh my god, you’re fine.” He realized, rolling his eyes playfully, though Louis still noted the hint of relief that crossed his features.

Louis stuck his tongue out. “Couldn’t miss a prime cuddling opportunity.” He teased with a wink.

It was an easy joke to make under the pretense of being in public. Harry wouldn’t call him on it—not around the team and the press. If it was just a little bit true, no one had to know.

“Arse.” Harry scoffed, fondly rolling his eyes. He placed a warm hand on the small of gently pressing his fingers in massaging motions as they waited for the medics to come and stretcher Louis off the field.

At the contact, Louis tried valiantly to swallow his smile. The injury, it seemed, was worth it.

\---

Harry was starting to get annoyed.

It wasn’t that Connor, or whoever, wasn’t doing his job—on the contrary, he seemed to be attending to the injury rather meticulously—it’s just that he couldn’t seem to do it without making _eyes_ at Louis.

Even with Harry standing _right there._

And yeah, okay, Louis was handsome, and talented, and famous, and gracious. And yes, Harry and Louis weren’t _really_ in a relationship. But Cameron didn’t _know_ that.

 _When did it start to become acceptable to flirt with someone when his rumored boyfriend was standing right beside him?_ Harry scoffed to himself, his forehead knitting in irritation. _Didn’t the Hippocratic oath include something about ethics?_

Harry tried to school his features into something more neutral as he stepped closer to Louis from behind, watching the process attentively.

“This will sting a bit with the cold,” The medic—Chris, his nametag informed them—warned, before he placed an icepack on Louis’ leg. Louis jumped at the contact, hissing and gritting his teeth as the freezing bag hit his tender skin. “It looks okay, though.” Chris added with a soft smile, his hand darting out to squeeze Louis’ balled fist reassuringly.

It could have been a simple, comforting gesture--something any medical professional might have done in a hospital setting--had Harry not seen the way the medic’s thumb ran gently across Louis’ knuckles, two soft swipes that were a little too familiar.

And alright, that was _enough,_ Harry decided, clearing his throat gently.

“How—er, how often do we have to ice his leg?” He asked, subtly emphasizing the ‘we’. He tried not to preen as he saw Chris’ eyes dart to him questioningly.

“Maybe every two hours,” He answered, palpating Louis’ ankle bones carefully. “The ankle seems to have twisted, but it’s not a sprain.”

“Should he avoid putting weight on it?” Harry continued. “Do we--I mean, if he can’t walk--should we see a doctor? To be sure?”

He could see Louis smiling softly at him from the corner of his eye and he realized too late that he was starting to sound a bit frantic, his voice pitchy and his thoughts going directly to worst-case scenario. But, he reasoned, they were surrounded by Louis’ teammates, and Harry would look like a right dick if he didn’t ask all the questions a concerned boyfriend should.

A niggling voice at the back of his mind told him that wasn’t necessarily true, but he ignored it—he was _acting_ , that’s all.

“No need.” Chris reassured with a smile. “I’ll just wrap the ankle properly to give it some support, and he should check that there’s no swelling after a couple of hours. Mr. Tomlinson has seen worse.” He added with a wink at Louis.

Louis, ever the courteous celebrity, laughed easily. “A few come to mind, yeah.” He agreed, as Chris carefully propped his leg into a comfortable resting position.

“Landing on your tail bone in the match against Barcelona in 2014, for one.” He supplied, throwing Louis a wide smile. “I’d just finished training then, and one of my professors said it was a hair’s breadth away from a spinal injury.”

“So I was told,” Louis chuckled. “I think the exact phrasing was ‘career ending’.” He shared.

“They used to call you ‘Nine Lives’ back at school. It’s a good thing, too,” Chris said with a small smile. “It’d be a shame to waste your level of talent.”

At that moment, Harry recognized a playful twinkle he didn’t like in the medic’s eye, and his hand, as if acting all on it’s own, settled itself suddenly in the dip between Louis’ neck and his shoulder, his thumb caressing the notch on his spine gently.

Louis’ eyes fell closed at the touch, and Harry felt butterflies flutter at the bottom of his belly as Louis subtly leaned closer to him.

“So,” Harry cut in, his tone just this side of sharp, his thumb refusing to still on Louis’ skin. “He’ll be fine?”

He felt Louis’ eyes on him, questioning the edge in his voice.

He’d think of an explanation later, he thought to himself, leveling Chris with an unimpressed look. Suddenly it seemed to click, Chris’ eyes widening in shock as they darted from Harry to Louis to Harry’s hand to Louis again.

“A-Absolutely.” The medic stammered, his cheeks suspiciously pink. “Right as rain in about two days.” He promised, gathering his tools off of the grass in swift, precise movements.

“Wonderful,” Harry replied succinctly. “Thanks.”

Chris stood up quickly, his equipment tucked away in a bag on his shoulder, and bade them both goodbye with a hasty (and rather awkward, honestly) wave, pivoting on his heel and walking briskly away without so much as a handshake.

Harry tried to will down the satisfied smirk that was blooming on his lips.

“Odd, that.” He heard Louis mumble under his breath, eyes squinted towards the medic’s rapidly retreating figure. Harry didn’t get a chance to comment, Niall pulling their attention back to the group quickly.

“So, still up for a celebratory pint?” He chirped, bright and happy.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Sam huffed with an eye roll. “The man twisted his ankle, Horan. How long have you been thinking about beer?”

“When is Niall ever _not_ thinking about beer?” Liam joked. “How you feelin’, mate?” He tacked on, playfully punching Louis’ free shoulder.

Harry watched warily as Louis motioned for Liam to give him a moment, and then proceeded to get gingerly onto his feet. He didn’t wince from the movement, but Harry noticed, he still had difficulty planting that foot flat onto the grass.

Louis found his balance and carefully placed a little weight on the injured leg, trying his best to walk forward. After three or four wobbly steps, each with a matching wince of pain, he turned back to his friend.

“S’not like, deathly painful or anything but s’a bit tough to walk on right now.” He said, stretching out his leg. “The bruise is tender, though—like, I’m sure it’ll be better in the morning—but I’m not really up for going out tonight lads, sorry.” He finished, turning an especially apologetic expression towards Niall, who looked ridiculously disappointed at the rejection.

“But we won.” Niall argued, with a pout.

“Sorry, Nialler,” Louis frowned, shrugging helplessly. “I’ll make it up to you, mate. First round on me?” He offered, grinning.

Niall sighed, pretending to be put-upon. “I guess that’ll do.”

He couldn’t manage to keep down his laugh, though, as he pulled Louis into a hug.

“Glad yer alrigh’.” He said, patting him on the back.

“Hold on,” Liam cut in, his brow furrowing. “We’re not leaving you alone when you can barely walk.”

Harry stifled a laugh as he saw Louis break away from his and Niall’s hug and turn to roll his eyes fondly at his manager. “Relax, mum,” He joked, holding his arms akimbo. “I’m an adult—“

“Questionable.“ Liam scoffed.

Louis narrowed his eyes at the insult. “As I said, I’m an _adult_ —I will be _fine_ on my own.”

Liam took a deep breath and opened his mouth to argue, but Harry, who had been watching the exchange from his place behind the bench, cut in softly, first. “I’ll stay with him, Liam.” He offered, with a smile.

Suddenly, seven pairs of confused eyes were staring right at him.

“What?” He laughed, eyes bright, puzzled by the looks on their faces. “Did you think I was going to leave my boy—“ His eyes darted to Louis quickly, before trying to school his features into something nonchalant as he caught his faux pas.

He cleared his throat and began again, addressing Louis this time.

“Did you think I was going to leave you— _while you were injured—_ to go have drink with your friends?” He asked, his tone both surprised and incredulous.

“Ellie would.” Sam teased, earning him a sharp smack from his wife.

Harry chuckled easily at the joke before turning back to Louis.

“I’ll stay with you, Lou.” He insisted, hoping his smile conveyed his sincerity. “I _want_ to.”

The words seemed to fall out of his mouth and settle in his chest. There was a weight there, now, that made him feel more vulnerable than he had in a long time, because he found that what he said was true. He _did_ want to spend his Saturday night helping Louis hobble from one place to the next on his bum leg, and he had _no idea_ when that had happened.

He refused to dwell on it, though—it was probably just the aftermath of all the acting, both his words and his actions syncing into pretend-boyfriend setting. Still, the air around them seemed heavy with some unrecognizable emotion as Harry warily allowed his eyes to meet Louis’.

“O-okay.” Louis stammered, nodding once.

And if both their cheeks were slightly pink, no one mentioned it.

\---

It was a leisurely walk from the bus to the lobby, the boys careful to slow their pace so that Louis and Harry were never too far behind. The group eventually dispersed as they reached the entrance of the hotel; Sam, Rowan, and their wives bidding them goodbye as they walked to the lifts, intent on a quick kip before their night out.

“Need help getting up to your room?” Liam asked earnestly, holding his arms out to Louis.

“I’m good, Li, I promise.” Louis laughed, trying and failing to straighten his leg to prove his point.

Harry watched the movement with a frown, shaking his head as he saw Louis try to bite down another wince.

 _Stubborn little shit._ He thought to himself, smiling.

He moved closer instinctively, his hand hovering over the small of Louis’ back, just to catch him should Louis teeter off balance--or so Harry told himself.

Truthfully, he had barely kept himself together as he watched Louis land roughly on his opponent; had practically leapt over the barrier and onto the field when team security had finally allowed partners through; Ellie, Hannah, and Maggie in tow. He had forgotten himself altogether, rushing across the grass and snatching Louis into his arms.

_Way to play it cool, Styles._

At least, this time, he could pull the PR card, he thought. _PDA, or whatever else Louis’ team wanted to call it_.

Louis noticed him move closer and stuck his tongue out at Harry. “I’m fine.” He mouthed silently, just before wobbling precariously to the left.

Harry quirked his eyebrow, and Louis stuck his tongue out once more.

They were like two children bickering silently in front of their busy parents, Harry realized, and had Louis not been injured, Harry would be tempted to _pokepokepoke_ him until he finally fell over. The image made him giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Louis whispered, mock annoyed, just before three consecutive chimes sounded through the back pocket of Liam’s jeans, pulling their attention away from their playful feud.

The three boys watched as Liam pulled out his phone, only to see his face fall instantly.

“Catherine?” Harry asked.

It was almost rhetorical at this point.

Though he’d only been around the team for roughly three days, Harry had received his fair share of e-mails and phone calls from Five Star PR. His work mailbox, which he only used for submitting notes and receiving comments and instructions from his colleagues, was now riddled with everything Louis Tomlinson.

He imagined that Liam and Catherine were in constant contact—Catherine hell bent on using Liam to spy on Louis for her when she couldn’t be there to personally incite her wrath. In fact, if he felt bad about how she treated Louis, he felt much worse for Liam, who was his first line of defense from her unique brand of verbal battery. Liam’s boss was fucking exhausting.

“She wants a quick recap with me before she clocks out of the office for the weekend.” Liam sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes.

“She knows what a weekend is?” Niall asked in mock shock, rolling his eyes. “Tha’ woman needs a pint and a serious shag.”

“Not quite sure that’d be enough.” Liam chuckled humorlessly.

“Take your call, Payno. I’ll be okay.” Louis said, offering him a sympathetic smile.

Harry stepped a little bit closer to Louis, hand now pressed firmly into the small of his back. He felt Louis lean into him slightly, relieving his injured leg of the weight. A sizzling warmth ran through Harry’s bones in all the places they touched, but he ignored it. _Not the time._

“I’ve got him, don’t worry.” Harry promised Liam.

He didn’t even have time to argue, his phone letting out a shrill ring.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Liam muttered. “This might be awhile, so I’ll take this upstairs. You coming, Ni?” He asked, already striding quickly towards the lifts and jabbing at the up button.

“Yeah,” Niall said around a yawn. “I think I might nap while you speak with the Spawn o’ Satan.” He chuckled, Liam too busy trying to murder the lift button to react. Niall turned halfway and made a phone motion with his hand. “Call us if you need any help, Harry, yeah?” He said, as the doors finally slid open.

“Right, just Harry then?” Louis grumbled sarcastically. “Never mind me, or anything.”

“Yeah, who even _are_ you?” Niall asked, holding his hands up in mock confusion.

“Wanker!” Louis called back.

“Louis!” Harry hissed, his cheeks pinking as his eyes darted around the room. “You can’t just yell ‘wanker’ in a hotel lobby!” He whisper-shouted.

Louis rolled his eyes nonchalantly at the reprimand as Niall’s guffaw rang through the wide room, the lift doors just barely cutting off the sound.

“Relax, grandpa.” He smirked, mimicking Harry’s taunt from yesterday.

Harry pinched his hip to retaliate.

“Hey!” Louis pouted, leaning away from Harry. “You can’t just _pinch_ an injured man, you monster!”

He rolled his eyes at Louis’ dramatics, and leaned forward trying to get another pinch in as Louis swatted at him playfully.

“Harry,” He warned on a laugh. “I swear, I’ll scream bloody murder.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” Harry asked, grinning evilly as he advanced on a very wobbly Louis.

“Don’t you come near me.” Louis said, holding his hands up in defense as he tried to maneuver backwards on his good foot.

Of the two of them, Louis was usually the more coordinated one; just as professional athletes ought to be. But today was an exception. He stumbled a little in an effort to get away from the pinch, and Harry laughed as he caught him around the waist, pulling the footballer up against him to steady the swaying.

“Proper damsel in distress today, aren’t you?” Harry teased, smiling as his hands pressed into the dips above Louis’ hips. _It’s usually me who’s falling all over myself for you,_ he didn’t add.

He felt the footballer inhale sharply, and it was only then that Harry noticed they were standing almost chest-to-chest, Louis’ warm palms on Harry’s pectoral muscles the only barrier between them.

“I—“

“E-excuse me, Mr. Tomlinson?” A female voice chirped from behind Louis, startling them apart. Harry’s hand darted forward as he saw Louis sway, holding him steady but not daring to pull him any closer in front of an audience.

When he was sure that Louis was carefully balanced, he looked up. The voice belonged to a very pretty woman whose dark hair was thrown haphazardly into a bun on top of her head. Her smile was quite radiant, kind blue eyes looking fondly at both of them. She kind of reminded Harry of his mum.

She was grasping the shoulders of a bashful looking teenaged boy who looked to be about seventeen, though Harry couldn’t be sure as his head was half ducked, ears bright red under the same dark hair.

Harry suddenly felt Louis move, gracefully leaning forward to extend his open palm to the woman.

“Hello, ma’am,” He said, his smile somehow both bright and gentle.

The woman immediately clasped Louis’ hand in both of hers, her eyes dancing. “Oh, please, call me Clara.”

She stepped back once again and proceeded to guide the boy beside her forward. “I’m so sorry to interrupt—I hope you’re not very badly injured, by the way—“ She gestured at the leg that was lifted ever so slightly off the ground.

“Thank you, it’s really just a bruise,” Louis assured, waving off her concern. He leaned forward toward the boy, hand outstretched again. “Hello.” He greeted happily.

The boy looked at Louis, his wide eyes flitting from Louis’ face to his hands and back again, as if in disbelief.

“I—um,“ He stammered, cheeks pinking as he moved to receive Louis’ hand. “I’m J-Joshua.”

Harry noticed then that he was holding a silky red fabric in his other hand, the white T-O-M vibrant from where he could see it. He smiled as he realized it was a replica of the shirt he was currently wearing—Louis’ favorite jersey.

“Nice to meet you both,” Louis chirped. He gestured at Harry then. “This is my…” Happy blue eyes skimmed across Harry’s face, and he suddenly felt his skin ignite under Louis’ appraisal. “This is Harry.” Louis finished, with a small smile.

 _‘My…’_ Harry thought, nearly unable to keep the idiotic grin off of his face.

“Hello, Harry.” Clara said, shaking his hand.

Joshua’s hand followed as Harry said a quiet hello, stepping backwards and allowing Louis to take the spotlight.

Clara regarded them both, her kind smile never wavering. “Again, I apologize for interrupting, but we just—Joshua just couldn’t leave without an autograph.” She explained, chuckling at her son. “I was rather insistent, and he’s so embarrassed right now—I think it’s quite obvious—but how often do you get to meet your hero, yeah? And who’s going to back you up if not your mum?”

If possible, Joshua turned even redder—his curled knuckles white against the fabric of the jersey—but Harry saw the beginnings of a fond smile at the corner of his lips.

Louis let out a full-bodied laugh. “Oh God, my mum did the _exact_ same thing when Wayne Rooney came to one of my final Youth League matches.”

Joshua’s grin had escaped now, Harry noticed, his eyes dancing at this revelation. “Really?”

Louis nodded vehemently, laughing again. “Mm-hmm. I was _mortified,_ but that poster is still up on me wall at home. It’s also his go-to introduction story whenever we see each other at events, which is,” He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, gesturing a shrug. “Like, super embarrassing, but hey. I’ve got inside jokes with _Wayne Rooney._ ”

Joshua laughed at that, his stance finally easing. “Thanks, Mr. Tomlinson,” He said, smiling happily. He offered up the jersey and a Sharpie, bashfully asking if Louis would mind signing it.

“No problem! And it’s Louis, please.” Louis corrected with a smile as he etched his signature on the fabric quickly, and gave it back to Joshua.

“Thank you, Louis,” Joshua agreed, with a distinguishable note of awe in his voice.

As he took back the signed shirt, he shifted on his feet and cleared his throat.

“I, um.” He started, cheeks flaming all over again. He bit his lip and glanced tentatively at his mum, who, Harry saw, nodded encouragingly at him to go on. He looked up at Louis, shy and hesitant, before continuing. “I, like—I wanted to say thank you f-for, um… For coming out publicly.”

His voice was meek, barely above a whisper, and Harry could feel his own heart pounding empathically as Joshua went on.

“I—I was going to quit football a—a year ago,” He explained, shakily. “The boys on the team were… they were shitheads.” He said simply.

Harry and Louis exchanged a somber look of understanding.

“Anyway, um. I was going to quit, and then you—you came out. And my mum and me saw it on the telly,” Joshua continued, smiling at Clara who was standing behind him, tears welling up in her eyes at the memory. “And she goes, ‘Good on him! His mum must be very proud.’” He pitched his voice a little higher as he quoted her, both of them chuckling at the imitation. He looked back at Louis, ducking his head again timidly. “So, um, just… thank you.”

There was lot more to the story, Harry could tell, but everything Joshua had said was enough to convey how grateful he was, how much he admired Louis for what he had done. Harry knew, because he felt exactly the same.

Though Louis had come out primarily for himself, he had also willingly put himself in such a unique and precarious position career-wise. He had risked everything to be true to who he was, and clearly, it was affecting so many lives already.

Harry chanced a glance at Louis, overwhelmed with silent pride.

 _This,_ he thought to himself. _This is the feeling your article should have. This is the Louis people should read about._

The footballer was looking back at Joshua’s ducked head, his smile bashful but so, so, endearingly pleased, beautiful blue eyes dancing.

“That’s… that’s amazing.” Louis whispered, disbelief touching his voice. “That means you’ll keep playing, then?” He asked, looking between Joshua and Clara, his brow slightly knitted in earnest concern.

“Y-yeah,” Joshua laughed. As he looked up, his eyes were slightly misty. “Can’t stop now, what with a signed jersey and all.” He joked, obviously trying to ease the emotionality of the situation.

“Oh, definitely.” Louis agreed sagely. “It’d be a crime to leave that hanging on a wall. It was built specifically for sweating, you see.”

The relief in Joshua’s twinkling laugh was obvious, his demeanor a lot less nervous than when his mum had first been holding his shoulders. It seemed as though he had finally begun to breathe easily, happy to be joking around with his idol.

“Exactly.” He said, beaming. He gave both Harry and Louis a slow wave as he backed away from them, eyes bright. “Thanks again, _Louis._ ”

They watched the pair walk away, Clara mouthing her own silent ‘thank you’ before she scurried off to wrap her son up in her arms, shaking him excitedly. “Louis _Tomlinson_ , baby!” They heard her whisper, kissing Joshua on the temple.

Mother and son were almost all the way out of the hotel entrance by the time Harry and Louis headed to the lifts, Harry wordlessly guiding Louis in with a hand on the small of his back, both content in their easy silence. It was only when the lift had begun to climb that Louis spoke.

“That was…” He started, clearly at a loss for words.

Harry looked over at him and smiled, filled to the brim with fondness at the disbelief in Louis’ expression. Two or three beats of silence passed, Louis unable to complete his sentence.

“Wonderful?” Harry supplied.

Louis laughed, thumbing away a small tear at the corner of his eye. “The fucking _best._ ”

Harry’s heart began to ache gently at the sight, his body involuntarily deciding that the only cure for it was to touch Louis, somehow. He moved a little to the left and ran his thumb tentatively down Louis’ arm.

“You seem surprised.” He noted, right as he intertwined their fingers. Maybe if he continued the conversation, he reasoned, Louis would be too distracted to pull away. “Don’t you know the impact you have?”

“Didn’t really realize how much it would mean to someone else, I guess.” Louis admitted, his thumb caressing Harry’s hand gently.

He almost had to close his eyes at the sweetness of it, at the realization that Louis Tomlinson, with all his absurd talent and killer good looks, was still so humble, so _astounded_ that he had touched a life somehow.

Harry desperately wanted to snog him senseless, all attempts at self-preservation forgotten.

The blasted lift had other plans.

It _ping_ -ed offensively, popping their pleasant little bubble, it’s doors roaring open louder than they had any right to.

Or Harry was exaggerating—but that’s definitely what it _felt_ like. The annoyance sizzled in his belly.

Suddenly, he felt a thumb gently easing the creases on his forehead.

“What happened, grumpy?” Louis laughed, happy and oblivious, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was standing in front of Harry now, their fingers still laced together. “You look like an angry kitten.”

Harry did his best to hold back a sigh, his mind racing to come up with an explanation. “I spaced out.” He offered lamely. “Sorry.”

Louis chuckled again, pulling Harry toward the door. “Alright, Spaceboy, let’s go. This thing is killing me.” He said, pointing to his leg.

Harry laughed and turned him around, placing his hands firmly on Louis’ hips and dutifully marching them both out of the lift to their room door. “I thought it was _‘just a bruise’_ , Rambo.”

“Shut up, Styles.”

\---

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Louis jumped backward, startling away from the pillows he was currently fluffing on the sofa.

“ _Jesus Christ._ ” He said, clutching his heart through his threadbare shirt and breathing heavily.

He turned around to find Harry frowning at him accusingly from the doorway of the bathroom, hair dripping wet and bare-chested in tiny black boxer briefs. Louis watched in stunned silence as water slid from his shoulders to his chest, running tracks along a countless smattering of tattoos. The sight almost had him on his knees, begging every existing deity for the strength not to jump him.

 _At least the curse was apropos,_ he thought with a shrug _._

Louis cleared his throat subtly and placed his hands on his hips, hoping that the haughtiness he put in his voice masked the rapid pounding of his poor heart. “I’m fixing my bed, Harry. No need to make it sound like a drug bust.”

“You’re not sleeping on the sofa.” Harry declared, incredulous. He looked deeply offended at the thought, and it made Louis want to giggle.

“What do you mean?” He asked instead. “We talked about this before the game—you bed, me couch, remember?” He cocked his head to the side, trying to read Harry’s expression properly.

Harry shook his head vehemently, damp curls bouncing with the movement.

“Nuh-uh.” He denied, petulantly. “That was before the game. Before _that._ ” He nodded toward Louis’ leg.

He glanced down, his grey gym shorts ending right at his knees, displaying the freshly bruised skin. Harry had insisted they ice it right after his shower, going so far as to palpate it gently for swelling, because ‘that Chris guy said so’. He had also said ‘Chris’ like it tasted of sour lemon, his face scrunching up adorably in distaste, though Louis still couldn’t understand why.

Louis rolled his eyes fondly, warmed by Harry’s concern. “H, the couch is practically a bed—have you seen it? It’s massive.”

He wasn’t lying; the couch was about the width of a twin bed, and wrapped in a soft, grey material. A cashmere throw was draped across its back, and fat, fluffy pillows had been thrown liberally across it. Louis could barely stop himself from gesturing at it with jazz hands.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and quirked his eyebrow in challenge. “Fine,” He said, shrugging easily. “Then _I’ll_ sleep on it.” He pivoted quickly, grabbing an extra blanket off the bed and marching toward Louis.

“Oh no, you won’t.” Louis said, meeting Harry halfway to the sofa and catching his biceps in his hands, trying to push him back towards the bed.

Louis was sure that, had he not been injured, he would easily be able to walk Harry backwards.

As it was, though, Harry wasn’t moving.

Their noses were almost touching, Louis jutting his chin up defiantly as Harry loomed over him at full height, his green eyes glinting. “Why not?” He smirked knowingly, tone lilting with sarcasm. “If it’s _so_ _comfortable._ ”

Louis narrowed his eyes in annoyance. He looked down for a split-second at the way his fingers were curled steadily on the cuts of Harry’s arms, grasping them roughly.

Big mistake.

The image sent a rapid flush up his neck.

 _He’s actually_ got _muscles, the string bean._

For a moment, he forgot what they were arguing about.

Then he looked back up and saw Harry’s eyes, bright and triumphant, and he glared back. He let go, taking a step back to put some distance between them, and winced as a jolt of pain shot up his leg at the sudden movement.

A look of recognition flashed across Harry’s face, and he raised an eyebrow, daring Louis to deny the discomfort again.

“C’mon Harry, don’t argue.” Louis pleaded, changing tactics quickly. Maybe pity would work. “My stupid stunt is the only reason you’re even here. I just want you to sleep well.”

“I’m not _going_ to sleep well knowing you’re injured and sleeping on a sofa.” Harry countered.

Louis threw his arms up in exasperation and rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, it’s one night! I’ve slept in dormitories smaller than our bathroom. I’ll be _fine_.”

“Will you stop being such a stubborn _asshat_ and just take the bloody bed?” Harry snapped, his brow furrowed in extreme annoyance.

It should not have been adorable. (It was.)

Louis shook the thought away by shaking his head firmly, arms crossed over his chest like a toddler. “No. Niall told me that Zayn told _him_ that you get awful back aches, so _no_.” He was really only a moment away from sticking out his tongue.

Harry looked at him, obviously very confused. “What? How did that even come up? Why are Zayn and Niall even texting?”

They were valid questions, Louis knew, but Harry was _fit as fuck_ and almost _buck-naked_ in the middle of a hotel room while he was asking them. _And_ they were arguing—about a couch of all things. No one could really blame Louis for the giggle that escaped.

“Louis, I’m serious!” Harry insisted, endearingly affronted. “Why are you _laughing_?”

“Because,” Louis giggled, clutching his stomach. “This argument is absurd.”

“It is not!” Harry said, shoving at Louis lightly, his seriousness completely betrayed by the way his mouth was quirking up at the corners. “C’mon Lou, please.” He pleaded, pouting and widening his deer-like eyes earnestly. “I’ll feel _bad_ if you sleep on the couch.”

“If I agree to _share_ the bed, will you shut up?” Louis teased, poking playfully at the journalist’s ribs, and making him giggle.

“Yes!” He declared emphatically, laughing as he tried to defend himself from Louis’ hands.

Louis sighed. “Fine.”

Harry preened at him, obviously satisfied at having gotten his way.

Louis rolled his eyes at him and pretended to be exasperated, as if sleeping next to a nearly naked Harry was such a sacrifice.

 _Sleeping next to a nearly naked Harry and not being able to do anything about it_ is _a sacrifice, though,_ a voice in his head reminded him.

 _Right_. He thought glumly.

There was a reason he had been putting up such a big fight, and Harry being comfortable was only part of it.

 _Too late now._ He thought, as he watched Harry return the spare blanket and pull back the covers.

The journalist folded his sinfully long limbs into the bed, rearranging the pillows so his head was propped up slightly on the headboard, the duvet landing just across chest. He looked at Louis expectantly, and when Louis didn’t move, he patted the space beside him.

“In you get.” He chirped.

Louis chuckled, so absurdly endeared by this man-boy he had met five days ago. “I’m coming.” He grumbled good-naturedly, as he padded across the room and climbed into the bed.

Harry regarded him, green eyes dancing, delighted. “Surely not yet,” he teased, lips turned up in a dirty smirk. “We haven’t even done anything.”

Louis’ jaw nearly dropped at the innuendo. That was the thing he was beginning to realize with Harry: he could go from heart-wrenchingly sweet to unbearably hot in the span of a breath, the drastic shifts often knocking the wind right out of Louis.

_Be cool, Tomlinson. It’s a joke. Say something sexy._

“Can you blame me? It’s been a while.” _Shit._

Harry let out a peal of laughter as Louis felt his cheeks flame, his embarrassment skyrocketing.

_Well done. Way to let him know how undesirable you are._

The stream of Harry’s cute giggles seemed endless, a new round starting up every time he chanced a glance at Louis.

Louis wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

Finally, Harry wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, the last of his chuckles coming to an end. “God, you’re incredible, you know that?”

And that was… not what Louis was expecting.

“What?” He asked, blinking at Harry, perplexed.

Harry shifted under the covers, turning to face Louis, his head pillowed by his arm. “You’re incredible.” He repeated, smiling at him. “With Amelia, and Joshua, and just… everything you’re doing is incredible.” He finished simply, as if he wasn’t paying Louis an immense compliment.

Oh, you know, incredible to Harry Styles. No big. Whatever.

“You’re ridiculous.” Louis scoffed on a smile, turning his head towards the ceiling, avoiding the admiration in Harry’s gaze.

He had a sinking feeling that if he looked at Harry in his bed any longer, he’d get disastrously attached to the image.

 _You already are,_ a voice in his head sang defiantly.

“I’m _not_.” He insisted, answering both his wayward thought and Harry. “But thank you.”

Harry chuckled softly, rolling his eyes. “Suit yourself.”

And then, as if in one, fluid movement, Harry lifted himself on his elbows and leaned across Louis on the bed.

Suddenly, all his senses were invaded by _HarryHarryHarry._ Louis held his breath as he felt the soft curtain of Harry’s ringlets tickle his cheeks, and smelled the scent of hotel shampoo wafting off of his curls.

_Click!_

The room went dark.

It was a moment before he realized Harry had turned off the only light left—the one on Louis’ nightstand. As his eyes adjusted to the shadowy room, he watched Harry slip back into the bed beside him and tried not to be too disappointed.

 _Of course he wasn’t going to kiss you, you loser. It’s just pretend, remember?_ He chastised himself for even hoping.

“Lou?” Harry called gently from beside him, interrupting his thoughts.

Louis didn’t turn his head, still stunned and trying to recover from the attack on his senses. “Hmm?”

“Goodnight.” Harry whispered, his soft breath right on the lobe of Louis’ ear. Just like last night, he felt the gentle press of pillowy lips on his cheek, this kiss lingering a little longer than yesterday’s.

He held his breath, and then felt Harry roll back into the empty space beside him, easy and contented, with no regard whatsoever for what he was doing to poor Louis.

 _No, sir._ He decided. _Not this time._

He absolutely _refused_ to spend another night lying awake in bed, obsessing over Harry Styles and his cheek kisses _._ It just wasn’t right.

Willing himself not overthink, he shifted onto his side with steely resolve. Hell, if Harry could do it so nonchalantly, why couldn’t he?

Blue eyes met green as Louis tracked the light resting on the curves of Harry’s face, searching for the perfect place. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss right on his dimple, running his nose gently across the apple of Harry’s cheek, before he fell back onto his pillow.

“Goodnight.” He said, smiling at the ceiling.

 _Ha ha! Checkmate._ He thought triumphantly.

His victory was quite short-lived, his eyes widening in shock as he felt a second, firmer, and more purposeful kiss right on the corner of his mouth—just a _hint_ of what Harry’s lips tasted like.                                                        

“Goodnight.” Harry sang softly, bouncing back down on the mattress, his smug smile seeping through his words.

Louis’ eyes narrowed in the dark.

Determined to win whatever silly game this was, he propped himself up on his elbows and hovered over Harry, eyes flitting across his flawless features, trying to decide on a target. Louis focused on the top of Harry’s cupid’s bow, so perfectly pink even by the dim light of the moon.

He leaned down slowly, mesmerized by the way Harry’s lips were quirking into a smile. “Good—“

Harry arched his long, lean body upward, swallowing Louis’ words in a tortuously slow kiss.

Louis let out a soft groan of pleasure as Harry’s bottom lip slipped between his own, soft, wet smacks echoing obscenely through the room.

Harry’s tongue caressed the seam of Louis’ mouth gently before slipping in and curling tantalizingly against the roof, and his brain began to feel like it was wading through molasses; thick, and sweet, and maddeningly wonderful.

“Goodnight.” Harry whispered into his mouth, teeth nipping and laving over and over softly on his bottom lip, with no real intention of letting up.

“Night.” Louis mumbled, breathless, as he ran his thumb across Harry’s cheek, diving deeper into the kiss, drinking the air between them. Fireworks exploded in steady, dragged out beats behind his eyelids— _Boom. Boom. Boom.—_ as their tongues swept lightly against each other.

With one last, gentle suck, Louis slid off Harry’s mouth slightly, trying to catch his breath. His head was fizzing, frantic and overwhelmed, and he inhaled sharply through his nose, desperate to clear it.

“Good--um,” He swallowed. “Goodnight.” He repeated shakily, falling back onto his pillow with a soft bounce.

He clutched at the duvet, focusing on steadying his breathing and ordering his nerves to calm themselves in vain. Distantly, he heard Harry sing “Night, Lou.” cheerfully into the dark.

A single thought was caught in Louis’ head on loop:

_God damn, did Harry Styles know how to kiss._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come say hi on tumblr [here](https://indiaalphawhiskey.tumblr.com/)! I would love to make friends!
> 
> You can also find the tumblr post here: [Ten Days With Tommo](https://indiaalphawhiskey.tumblr.com/post/159164346194/ten-days-with-tommo). :)


End file.
